


Eager to Be What You Wanted

by michelel72



Category: The Dresden Files - Jim Butcher, Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Amnesia, Crossover, Handwaving, M/M, Mad Science, Magic, Mind Manipulation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-13
Updated: 2016-07-09
Packaged: 2018-05-20 04:18:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 48,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5991463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/michelel72/pseuds/michelel72
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After too many absences, a poorly timed argument, and Valentine's Day, Carlos just wants Cecil to be happy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Valentine's Day

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Love is All You Need to Destroy Your Enemies](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2207475) by [shadydave](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadydave/pseuds/shadydave). 



> This will probably be super confusing if you haven't read the (200k-word) inspiring work, but I'm not the boss of you. You do what you want.
> 
> Be advised there is much handwaving within, because I do what I want, too.
> 
>  **Timeline** : Potential spoilers for WtNV through episode 81, "After 3327"; and for Dresden Files through "Skin Game".
> 
>  **Content warnings/triggers** : I don't think any content warnings are relevant, but if loss of autonomy/mind-control sorts of things are triggers for you, please proceed with caution or message me for details.
> 
>  **Title** is from Air Supply's "Lost in Love", because I am a gigantic dork.
> 
>  **Beta** (including Dresden Files compatibility checking) by [shadydave](http://archiveofourown.org/users/shadydave/pseuds/shadydave). Which is a little like going on "Lip Sync Battle" and having your song's original artist not just show up but help you with your choreography. Any remaining errors or awkwardness are on me, though, for I can be both stubborn and clueless at times.

Cecil wraps up his Saturday show and hustles out of the radio station with a haste that is, perhaps, just the tiniest bit unseemly. Carlos is _finally_ back, if the text that appeared on Cecil's phone halfway through the show was real and not a figment of self-delusion.

Cecil is reasonably confident he couldn't have imagined the entire brief-but-flirtatious exchange that had followed that first text. He just doesn't have Carlos's flair with dinosaur emojis.

In theory, they don't have long, because Cecil has to be back in just a few hours. The coverage team for Valentine's Day is going to lock themselves in the broadcasting bunker before midnight tonight, to ensure they'll be able to provide continuing coverage of the impending disaster without themselves falling victims to any of its many and foul hazards.

But Cecil has been thinking. The scientists have their own bunker, yes, and Carlos isn't _technically_ part of the radio station staff, but there's no actual _rule_ that says Carlos can't join them in the broadcasting bunker. They won't be able to get up to much, since Cecil will be working for long stretches and there will kind of be other people right there, but Carlos can bring his current assignment for his online class, and during breaks they can share coffee and just … be together.

Cecil misses just being with Carlos. They had a lovely, if quick, visit with Carlos's family for an … _unusual_ Christmas, but ever since they got back, one thing after another has pulled them apart. A little of that is Cecil's job, and most of it is Carlos's job, and the rest is a succession of ordinary but poorly timed interruptions.

Even before Christmas, Carlos was distracted by both Council business and end-of-term deadlines, and though he made certain the Christmas trip happened, he's barely been around at all since then. When he has, it's mostly been for a day or two, and those rare days have been on such short notice that Cecil hasn't always been free for them himself. Cecil has _mostly_ made up for his forced "vacation" now, but that took a lot of extra assignments and groveling. And the Tumbleweed Incident certainly didn't help matters.

But difficult periods just happen sometimes, and all they can do is make the most of the chances they do get. So if they have to huddle in terror for a day or two, why not huddle in terror together? Besides, the staff all like Carlos, so his presence would probably boost _their_ morale, too.

Not to mention Carlos's, for that matter. The scientists can't have anything that would keep him busy or distracted enough not to fret about all the destruction. Cecil isn't sure whether Carlos has even been in town for Valentine's Day before, but if he was, he probably paced enough to wear holes in the floor of the science bunker. Which means even the scientists will probably prefer Cecil's plan.

Carlos is on the couch when Cecil finally gets home. He glances up from whatever he's working on and smiles, the sweet one he seems to reserve just for Cecil. Cecil smiles back, relieved at this ultimate confirmation he hasn't just been engaging in wistful imagining.

Carlos looks back down to murmur the last few syllables of some kind of incantation before easing his sword back into its sheath. Doubt pierces Cecil's high spirits like a single small-caliber bullet through a hot-air balloon, because why is Carlos working with his sword now?

Cecil looks around at the rest of the room, and his hopes and tentative plans come plummeting down as that warning shot is followed up with a fusillade of damning details.

Carlos's Warden's cloak is draped over the arm of the couch, his staff on the floor beneath it, carefully placed away from stray feet but in easy reach. A new multi-pack of grenades, still bearing stickers from the current holiday/disaster clearance sale, is next to the waiting duffel bag. So are several magazines of ammunition for the two handguns sitting in their holsters, right out on the coffee table.

Carlos has very nitpicky rituals — even if he gives them a fancy scientific name like "basic safety protocols" — for his munitions in the common areas of their apartment. This isn't a putting-away of recently used weapons, and it isn't a simple seasonal rotation of the ordnance closet, which Carlos never bothers with anyway. This all-too-familiar scene means he's heading out on yet another mission.

 _Already_.

And unless he's suddenly changed his mind and become comfortable with using time wormholes, there's no way he could finish one of his usual missions in the few hours before the radio station bunker is sealed.

"You have to leave again," Cecil says, trying not to sound bitter and failing extravagantly. He didn't think hoping for a _couple of days_ was really asking so much. "I guess I should just be grateful you're still here at all."

Carlos glances up at him, the smile disappearing. "Apparently not," he mutters. He pulls off his glasses as he stands and shoves them in a pocket of his lab coat. He starts packing the sheathed sword and the smaller weapons into the duffel, his hands careful but quick with far too much practice.

"How long were you even planning —"

"I'm _sorry_ , all right?" Carlos already sounds frustrated, which means this is not going to go well. He closes the duffel and moves to set it next to the door as he says, "I would have told you. I just wanted —"

"What, to be gone before I got back so you could tell me by text instead?" Cecil suggests, because Carlos may be frustrated, but Cecil is crushed. Okay, maybe he let himself get a little too invested in the whole sharing-a-bunker prospect when he hadn't even asked yet, but expecting more than _this_ wasn't unreasonable.

"That is _not fair_ ," Carlos objects. The television suddenly turns itself on and starts surfing channels, which seems to frustrate him further.

"Why not?" Cecil demands. "That's all I've been seeing of you anyway. You're _never here_ anymore. Yes, I know _your job_ and _very important_ and _world-threatening peril_ ," he adds when Carlos clearly wants to bring that up, "but even when you're here, you're barely here, and I never have any idea when you'll be here in the first place."

That's the worst part, the rapid cycle of hope and disappointment. If he could just know that Carlos would be away for a week or a month, he thinks he could resign himself to it a little more easily, but he's already been through this and he hated it the first time. The unpredictable and too-brief calls and texts, with all their half-promises and apologetic retractions, feel entirely too much like _I'll look for a door tomorrow, okay, but first —_  
  
"I am trying," Carlos says, fighting to keep his voice level, but the flickering lights suggest that Cecil has scored a hit. "Can we _please_ just —"

His phone informs them that _the sun is a miasma of incandescent plasma_.

"Are you _joking_?" Carlos demands, yanking the phone from his pocket. "Can I not even have _ten minutes_ away from — oh, don't you _dare_ ," he snaps as the phone warbles and dies. "You have been through an _actual volcano_ , you can't seriously be losing it now." He shakes the phone vigorously.

"Oh, don't mind me," Cecil says. "It's not like I'm _right here_ or anything. It's not like we were in the middle of a conversation."

The television starts blaring in backwards Russian.

"I can't —" Carlos starts to say, but then he stops and does his silently-counting-to-ten thing before saying instead, "I have to go."

"Of course you do."

Carlos grabs his cloak and pulls it on, going so far as to raise the hood, even though he _knows_ Cecil has an entirely understandable revulsion at seeing a hooded figure in his own home. Cecil shudders involuntarily.

"I saw enough of that text to know it was something about the wards at the labs. I have to go make sure I didn't screw up the updates enough to make the labs implode with my friends inside." Carlos picks up his staff. "I should probably take a walk anyway, unless you really wanted an excuse to replace the television _again_. Turn off the oven in ten minutes. I don't know if I'll have time to stop back in before midnight, so don't wait too long to leave for the station. Stay safe."

And then he brushes past Cecil and right out the door, grabbing his duffel on the way.

This is ridiculous. Carlos has been getting increasingly stressed about whatever's been going on with the White Council lately, so he's been a lot faster to shut down than usual, but he could at least _try_.

Cecil wants to chase after him, but this is a matter of boundaries. Carlos is Disengaging Responsibly, and Cecil has to honor that. Besides, Carlos is a wizard. He can hide in plain sight and open doorways to other worlds. He won't be found if he doesn't want to be.

Cecil peeks out into the hallway just in case, but Carlos is not turning back or lingering with an obvious desire to be talked out of his decision to leave. Cecil closes the door with a curse. Righteous anger carries him through getting his jacket off, unplugging the television to silence it, and crossing to the kitchen.

Then it abandons him just as abruptly as Carlos did.

The table is set for two, with candles and elegantly folded napkins, as if Carlos had expected them to share an unrushed dinner. The oven is producing the tantalizing odor of enchiladas, as if Carlos was hoping to recapture a little of the magic of one of their earliest successful dates. When Cecil peeks inside the oven he sees a double portion, as if Carlos had been planning to send Cecil back to work with a generous serving of evocative leftovers.

And Carlos said something about trying to stop back in before midnight. He doesn't leave his weapons out if he's not planning to use them soon … but maybe this time "soon" meant after the few hours before Cecil has to go back to work.

Cecil sinks into a chair. "I think I may have messed up," he tells his napkin, which has been whimsically shaped to resemble the headgear of an arcane religious order. Or possibly of a parking attendant at Tourniquet.

The napkin does not express surprise.

Cecil realizes belatedly that Carlos had been wearing his science uniform. (He wanted to call the lab coat and fake glasses the _science disguise_ , but Carlos objected because he was worried one of them might accidentally say that around people who weren't supposed to know he was a wizard yet, so they settled on _science uniform_ instead, even though the other scientists were mostly amused and a little affronted by the entire topic.) Carlos doesn't usually wear the science uniform around their home anymore, but he knows Cecil likes it, so sometimes he does for Cecil's sake. And tonight Cecil hadn't even had to ask first.

Cecil carefully moves the napkin and plate closer to their mates at the other chair to make room for banging his head on the table. "Dammit, Cecil!" he chides himself. Snap judgments are a very effective and important survival tool, but they have a bad habit of backfiring when it comes to Carlos. Cecil keeps forgetting that.

He digs out his cell phone and texts a simple _I'm sorry_ but makes himself leave it at that, because he is respecting boundaries. Besides, he can't assume Carlos will see the text right away, and he doesn't want the apology to be lost in the many other messages he would like to be sending. Carlos sometimes doesn't see or even receive messages for hours, what with his tendency to travel in countries and dimensions with poor cell coverage, not to mention the way he frequently exposes his phone to temporarily disruptive phenomena like electricity and fire and bullets.

And wizardly emotions, which he's having right now. Because of Cecil.

Cecil sighs, turns off the oven, and makes himself eat a generous portion of the enchiladas, even though every bite feels like a rebuke. He'll need his strength for the upcoming broadcast coverage.

Just as he's dealing with the leftovers, his phone beeps. He snatches it up, hoping, but the message isn't from Carlos. It's from Dr. Renegade.

_Don't know what happened, don't care. Fix this._

Then another beep, and _I didn't stock nearly enough cheap tequila for whatever this is AND tomorrow._

Then the phone rings, claiming that Carlos is calling. Cecil answers hastily. "Carlos?"

"Whatever she's saying, ignore her. She's meddling and she needs to _not_." Carlos's voice turns distant. "Yes, Julie, I do mean you, because I don't see any other meddling meddlers in here, do you? What — what does that even — you know what, goodbye. Yes, out the door, thank you, _goodbye_." He sighs deeply behind a swell of static. Then, before Cecil has a chance to put together the right words, he says, "Sorry I walked out like that. I mean, I had to, but … sorry."

His voice is rough and weary. "Are you all right?" Cecil asks. Which is a useless question, because —

"I'm fine," Carlos says, because of course he does. But then he offers, "I'm just … I'm really stressed right now."

"It didn't help that I overreacted, did it? Carlos, I'm so sorry —"

"No, it's not your fault. I would have told you, but I thought we could get just a few hours first. And I meant to be done with prep before you got back, but Play Ball was short-staffed, so shopping took longer than I expected. I just wanted to get that out of the way so I could at least be there with you all the way up until you had to go back to work. For a _change_."

He sounds so angry at himself, and static starts dancing across his words.

"You're right I haven't been there for you these past few weeks. No, _months_. You're right it's not fair I'll have to go right back out. I'm trying to fix it, and I'm _failing_ , and I don't know when it will get better. Or if. I know this isn't — none of this is fair to you. I wish —" But he catches himself even before Cecil can remind him about the current wish restriction and says instead, "I'm sorry I'm so bad at this."

"You're not," he tells Carlos, because while Carlos certainly makes mistakes in their relationship, he's not as bad at it as he thinks he is, and he's not the only one who does. Cecil is the one who ruined a pretty good effort for the circumstances. "I should have waited long enough to find out you'd cooked. Do you think you'll have time to come back before I go in? You didn't eat."

"I'm still working on the wards here," Carlos says. "And you don't have all that long before you have to go back in. I don't want you to be late." The static isn't as bad, but the resignation in his tone doesn't make Cecil feel much better.

He pushes down a swell of jealousy. He does want the scientists to be safe, and it's kind of Carlos to help them on his way to … wherever it is he's going. And if Carlos did come back, they would probably have enough time for _something_ , but they would probably have to rush, and that wouldn't help anything. "I suppose. Do you at least have something for dinner?"

"They're making me eat here. _Frozen dinners_." Carlos sounds so disgusted that Cecil can't help smiling.

"I have done you a grave disservice by driving you to resort to heavily processed foods," he proclaims with excessive drama, because he wants to be able to think Carlos might be smiling too, even if only for a moment. "Can I ever be redeemed?!"

"My options appear to be Salisbury steak or Swedish meatballs," Carlos says. "So."

"Then my debt is sealed! I am forever forsaken, condemned to guilt and shame, knowing I have consigned you to re-formed meat product and excessive sodium content!" He drops the drama to add, "But I'm leaving some of the leftovers in the fridge here, so if you find time, you can always stop by to take some with you."

"We'll see." Carlos sounds a little better. "Stay safe, okay? Don't leave the broadcasting bunker until you're _sure_ it's clear."

"You be careful, too." Cecil will never be _happy_ that Carlos has to leave again already, but at least that means he'll be safe from Valentine's Day. "I love you."

"I love you, too."

And maybe that won't be enough in the end, but it's enough right now.

After hanging up, Cecil makes a face at Dr. Renegade's text, trying to figure out whether he should answer it and, if so, _how_. Before he can decide, though, she sends another one.

 _Acceptable._  
  
Cecil is relieved to see that Carlos was apparently helped by the conversation, but he kind of agrees with Carlos that the meddling isn't warranted. It's also unusual; she usually stays out of their relationship. He sends a fish-with-earmuffs emoticon and goes back to dealing with the leftovers.

* * *

Intern Juan waves his phone above his head. "Sunset! I repeat, we have sunset!"

The on-duty shift cheers wearily. Cecil keeps his cheer brief, because he has to be careful of his voice. He managed to get a few hours of restless sleep before sunrise and during the morning show, but he's had to cover several blocks that are usually filled with pre-recorded content or ambient sounds, and he still has hours to go.

He stretches for a few seconds to loosen up before going back on air and informing his listeners of the milestone the survivors have now passed. Sunset marks the end of the most active threats; with evening, concern turns as it must to the lurking surprises that have been left behind.

There's a brief lull in external reports, but they soon pick up again. Aside from the official emergency reports that arrive on the official emergency teletype, Tumblr and Twitter are popular methods, as usual; semaphore had a spike of popularity last year, but it's been overtaken by both incoherent screaming and old-fashioned phone calls this year. The interns and volunteers are doing a good job of filtering and condensing those reports, letting Cecil focus on keeping the broadcast strong.

One of the "emergency reports" isn't an emergency at all, just a notice that the Monkey's Paw Warning has been downgraded to a Monkey's Paw Watch. The Water Department has been insisting there's no contamination of the water supply for a couple of days now, and the new report is forty lines of blank verse that essentially state the screenings haven't found any contaminated people either. It seems likely the crisis is well over and the risk that anyone will be inflicting the horrible, twisted realizations of their hearts' desires upon the helpless world has passed. If Cecil had to guess, the City Council is burying the update in today's news as cover for their overreaction, but it's not as if he has time to speculate on-air, so he has to admit it's a smart move on their part.

Once he's passed along that report and the latest on the Desert Creek development, he puts on a pre-recorded advertisement to give himself time to drink some more tea, but just as he's pushing his chair back, his cell phone rings. Most people know to call the main line for the radio station, but some people — 

It's Shakeena Flynn. He almost sends it to voicemail anyway, but … today of all days, she probably wouldn't call idly. He answers instead.

"Do you want us to pick you up on the way?" she asks immediately, brusque yet somehow gentle. "It's still dangerous out here, but there's safety in numbers, and I wouldn't think you'd want to be driving right now."

Cecil wonders which of them is confused. "I'm on-air right now. Well, not _right_ now, but —"

"They won't let you go? Bastards. You want to fight them? If so, you want help? Or should I just let you know what I find out?"

"About … what?"

Shakeena pauses for several seconds. "You haven't even told Cecil yet?" she demands faintly. She then has a side argument he can't make out for long enough that Cecil has to start another advertisement. When she finally comes back, she says, "Okay. Apparently they didn't call you yet because they weren't sure when you'd be able to leave, so they didn't want to distract you while you were working until they had more answers. But Ward— your Carlos got hurt today, honey."

Cecil's head spins. "How?!" he demands. How could Carlos have gotten to his mysterious mission, gotten hurt, come back through an eldritch siege-slash-pillaging, and made contact with the scientists in their bunker, all already? He was supposed to be comparatively _safe_ today.

"I don't know much," Shakeena says. "Just that he won't wake up and they wanted my help enough to come out in all this."

Cecil doesn't remember standing. He drops his headphones. "Pick me up," he says before hanging up. He raises his voice to call out, "Somebody cover for me." The morning show wraith could do it, or an intern, or they could go to the weather early or something. He filled in most of the day. They owe him. He walks away from the board.

He remembers the mobile equipment mostly by catching his foot on the carry-bag's strap and nearly falling. He brought it along just in case the bunker's board went out for some reason. Professional guilt and a superstition against ignoring hints from inanimate objects make him grab the bag and sling it on, just in case. Maybe he'll be able to find somewhere safe later and then work in a few remote spots.

He does have to fight, as it turns out, but just a couple of sales-Seans who are _supposed_ to be helping with the phones but instead have decided they don't want him to open the bunker door and risk letting something in. After a few seconds of grappling, though, he's able to trip one of them and distract the other by faking a sighting of a new account at the other end of the bunker.

It's not until the door clangs firmly shut behind him that he realizes how woefully unequipped he is to be out and about on what is arguably the most hazardous part of Valentine's Day. Damage and casualty reports near the radio station have been relatively light, but Cecil is very careful as he makes his way through the halls, jumping slightly at each creak and emanation.

By the time he reaches the front door, a familiar unmarked white van is already swerving to a stop, so he takes a deep breath and braces himself, and as soon as its door is thrown open, he hurls himself across the gap. There's an ominous click-snap. Something just misses him and pulverizes itself against the side of the van, showering him in chalky candy dust, but a wave of flames shoots out of the van, providing enough cover for him to make it all the way in safely. He coughs a few times, wincing at the taste of the candy dust, as the van lurches back into motion.

Dr. Rochelle carefully secures her flamethrower and pushes her safety goggles up on her head before greeting him. "Hi, Cecil! Good speed there. You okay?"

Cecil nods. Shakeena thumps him on the back a few times, until the last of the coughs clears his throat. He bites his lip. "Is — is Carlos —"

"Brace for chocolates!" Master Rawhide shouts, barely a second before impact.

The van makes it through largely intact. The tires don't. Everyone winces at the noise of bare rims on pavement, but they all know better than to stop.

When they reach the science building, Master Rawhide stops the van and flashes the headlights in a pattern. When a flashlight responds, Dr. Rochelle covers Shakeena and then Master Rawhide as they dash for the door, then waves Cecil on. He darts over.

"Oh, it's you," Dr. Renegade says when he reaches the door. She has some kind of customized, duct-tape-bedecked weapon in one hand. "I guess you can come in." She uses the flashlight in her other hand to signal Dr. Rochelle and then provides cover for her.

Dr. Rochelle picks up speed halfway across. "Lace hearts lace hearts _lace hearts_ ," she warns, shoving Cecil the rest of the way inside. Dr. Renegade squeezes off a few zappy-sounding shots before slamming the door shut, and then all three scientists shove a heavy piece of equipment up against it as soft sounds brush against the other side.

Cecil is busy shrugging off the itching sensation that briefly crawled all over his skin as he entered the building. Shakeena has hooked her spiked tee-ball bat to her waistband and is rubbing her arms as if she felt the same thing. " _That's_ new," she mutters. "Remind me to have a word or ten with your boyfriend about upsetting ward changes."

"Get moving," Dr. Renegade orders, pushing past them to lead the way. "It's not safe up here."

The other two scientists are briefly delayed by shutting down and removing the flamethrower, so they bring up the rear. Dr. Renegade leads them all to the bunker and knocks a different pattern.

After a long sequence of locks disengage, Dr. Renaissance peers carefully around the edge of the door before pushing it the rest of the way open. "Everyone all right?" he asks anxiously. "Oh, hello, Cecil! I didn't know you were coming now." He waves them all in and then starts re-engaging the locks.

The last scientist, Dr. Reliant, is in a corner off to the left, monitoring several screens, but Dr. Renegade leads them to the other end, where several sleeping bags are lined up. Carlos is lying on one of them, his cloak draped over him as a blanket.

Cecil hurries forward to kneel and carefully take one of Carlos's hands. There's a mark that's half scrape, half impending bruise across one cheek, and there are a few small scratches and acid burns on the wrist and hand Cecil is holding, but other than that, Carlos actually doesn't look nearly as hurt as Cecil had worried he might be.

"Once we got him out of the cloak, we grabbed a passing EMT to make sure we were good to get him off the street," Dr. Renegade is telling Shakeena. "It's apparently not anything medical. He might have a couple of cracked ribs and I have no idea how that knee _isn't_ dislocated, but those don't explain why he _won't wake up_. It doesn't look like sleep, because …."

She produces a wooden ruler and pokes Carlos in the upper arm several times, pretty hard. Then she waves the intact ruler at them.

"If it was just sleep, this would be dust right now." An unfamiliar note of uncertainty enters her voice. "I know he has some kind of protections worked into that lab coat and cloak, so I thought they might help if we covered him with them."

"Probably," Shakeena says. "Cecil, honey, do you want to try first?"

Cecil nods. After all his traveling through the time vortices more than a year ago, if Carlos was short of sleep, once he did fall asleep he stayed that way until he was fully rested. The effect isn't quite as strong now as it was even several months ago, whether because it's wearing off or Carlos is adapting to it, so now it's just _very hard_ to wake him up if he's not ready. But Cecil has developed methods. They may not help for other kinds of unconsciousness, but he has to try.

He tries stroking the uninjured cheek. He runs a hand through Carlos's slightly unkempt but always lovely hair. He murmurs encouragements as he eases his hand under the cloak and across Carlos's abdomen, careful to keep clear of the one set of scars that always evokes some dark memory. He tries a few other not-entirely-unsuitable-around-others touches that are usually effective and even a gentle kiss. After a moment's hesitation, he leans in and whispers several suggestions that always, _always_ work.

But not this time. Cecil sits back against his heels, looking up at Shakeena helplessly.

She considers for several seconds and then moves a few things away so she can draw a circle around Carlos, with herself and Cecil inside as well. As soon as she completes the circle, Carlos exhales and somehow visibly relaxes even further. The noise level in the bunker doesn't change, yet it _feels_ quieter in a way Cecil can't name.

Shakeena lowers herself to the floor on the other side of Carlos and squints at him for several seconds. She pulls back with a fierce wince. She uncovers Carlos, setting the protective garments carefully aside, before producing a small vial. Dabbing its contents on Carlos's face, ears, and throat, she chants something complex.

Carlos doesn't even twitch, even though several people are watching him closely, and being watched always seems to shake him out of normal sleep. Cecil feels fear carving arcane symbols into his heart.

When Shakeena finishes, she sits back and closes the vial, then closes her eyes for several seconds to collect herself. After covering Carlos back up, she looks up at Dr. Renegade.

"He took one hell of a psychic hit. Probably more than one. Bruising that deep, in someone at his level —" She shakes her head. "There's something else, too, some kind of pall I can't make out, but the banged-up psyche is the thing to worry about right now. I've done what I can, but he needs time, and rest is the best thing he can do at this point. Being inside his own wards or thresholds, plus the spells on that cloak and lab coat — the protections he works in will help. People he likes and trusts being nearby should help, too. Even then, I'd say you want to keep a circle up until at least tomorrow morning."

Dr. Renegade squats down outside the circle to be closer to their level. "Usually he's out there clearing out nests and left-behind trappings by now, at least the worst ones." She ignores Cecil's bewildered look. "And then he's supposed to head back to Project Osgiliath. I take it at least the first part of that won't be happening?"

" _Definitely_ not."

Dr. Renegade sighs. "I miss the days when he was just managing to get himself hit by cars. Wei! Brace yourself, we're on in five. _You_." She gives Cecil a challenging look. "You want to help protect this ongoing disaster that calls itself a city? We should be able to patch you through to emergency services, and things will probably go easier if they're talking to you instead of us. Fewer questions."

Cecil glances down at Carlos. "I should —"

"You should let him know you're here, and the best way to do that is talking. Historically speaking, your voice is probably the one thing that can get through to him when nothing else can." She often seems angry, but now the anger seems much more personally directed at Cecil, and he doesn't know why. "Trust me, you'll be doing _plenty_ of talking for this."

Cecil looks to Shakeena. At her nod, he steps out of the circle, and she follows before sealing it again. Dr. Renegade turns towards the other end of the bunker, but Cecil catches her arm to stop her. "Wait. Please. I don't understand. Why is Carlos here?"

She glares at his hand until he releases her sleeve. "We had to get him off the street."

"No, I mean why is he in Night Vale? He was supposed to be on one of his missions."

She stares at him. "It's Valentine's Day."

He stares back. "Yes, exactly!"

"His job is protecting people. I know you know he's out there fighting against these things — you talk about it enough on your radio show."

"Ordinary horrors and disasters, yes, of course. Valentine's Day is different! _No one_ should be out there. There is a time to fight and a time to cower, and this is definitely the time to cower!"

Dr. Renegade looks like Cecil is deliberately flunking a class just to annoy her. "Yeah, because that sounds like Carlos. He's been dealing with Valentine's Day since he started here. How could you possibly have missed — well, okay, that first one after you met him, you had just been through that mind-whammy thing. But the next —" She hesitates again. "Wait. He still hadn't found the guts to tell you about the whole wizard thing by then, had he. And last year he was off playing 'Survivor: Tatooine' and his boss had to cover for him here. So this year …." Her scowl softens into a frown. "You really didn't know?"

"No, I — I didn't — ever since he started here? _Ever since the banjolele_?" Cecil feels sick at the thought of Carlos being out there all that time, all those Valentine's Days, and Cecil _never realizing_.

She gives him an odd look. "If you're quoting Paul Simon, it's 'ever since the watermelon'."

"I can't play the watermelon," Cecil says. Of course, he's not very good on the banjolele either, but that's not important now.

"… Right. Anyway, yes. Every year he goes out there to destroy things I don't want to know about and play chew toy for the _thing_ , and then when he's done with all that he beats himself up even more about all the people he still couldn't save."

"So … so he wasn't getting ready to leave again?" Just how badly had Cecil messed up? But no, Carlos had said —

"No, he was. He's been in some train-wreck of an operation, and his boss kicked him off that so he could handle this nightmare, but when he's done here he's supposed to go back. Though at this rate …." She eyes Carlos, still lying unconscious. "We'll see. Come on, let's go see if we can save some people while he's slacking off. But first —" She looks over at Shakeena. "Do you want to stay or leave?"

Shakeena stops looking at Cecil with pity to answer. "Stay. Tamika is guarding the little ones, and I'm not going back in all that."

"You can help too, then, if you want," Dr. Renegade says, leading them over to the monitors. "Andre needs to get some sleep."

" _Wei_ needs to get some sleep," Dr. Reliant mutters, rubbing his eyes.

"Wei can tough it out until I bring these two up to speed, and then I'll take over," Dr. Renegade tells him. She leans against Dr. Renaissance's shoulder to read from his screen. "'Help, help, I'm being oppressed by strings of paper Cupids'? That's it, I'm cutting you off. Go. Sleep."

Cecil is so accustomed to hearing his own show as he broadcasts it that he hadn't even noticed he was hearing it here. Now that he's close to the monitors, where it's louder, he recognizes the familiar lonesome howl of the current Kraft Cheeses spot. He winces, hoping they haven't just been playing advertisements this entire time.

Dr. Renaissance taps a key firmly before pushing himself back from the keyboard. "There. Another report done. Are you sure? I can keep going." He then yawns massively. "A bit of punchiness probably helps with the style-masking."

"You passed _punchy_ hours ago, my friend. Go." She waits for Dr. Renaissance to stand and watches him make his stiff way over to the sleeping area before turning back to Cecil and Shakeena. "So. Welcome to our new disaster-time command center."

Cecil looks more closely at the monitors in front of Dr. Reliant. He's surprised to recognize a variety of locations around Night Vale, apparently in real time, each monitor updating at regular intervals to display a new location. "How are you getting all this?"

"Um, hello, you live in a surveillance state, remember? One that has hidden cameras with highly inadequate transmission security practically everywhere. We're just … temporarily availing ourselves of a public resource, that's all. We were watching for trouble spots so Carlos had some warning of what was going to try to eat him next, but then when he went down … well, at least we knew. Now we're submitting reports with spoofed numbers and geolocation so we don't have to waste time explaining why we know where the problems are. But if you're here, you can just call and tell them people are contacting you. The emergency workers wouldn't question that."

Cecil eyes the setup thoughtfully. He can _work_ with this. "Or I could just remote-broadcast," he says, patting his mobile-equipment bag. "They all listen to the radio, too. I can pass along reports much faster this way."

Dr. Renegade regards him for several seconds. "That could work," she says finally, which from her is high praise indeed. Shakeena pulls over an extra chair so she can start going through feeds, and Dr. Reliant helps Cecil set up his equipment before staggering off to join the others in rest.

Once everything is ready, Cecil reaches for his phone so he can warn the staff back at the radio station to switch over to his control, but Dr. Renegade puts her hand over his phone first. "Look. About earlier." She keeps her eyes on the monitors, but he has no doubt her words are only meant for him. "Normally I leave you guys to fumble through your whatever in your own way, but … you sent him out like that to deal with _today_ , which even Warden Army-of-One over there takes seriously. If he went and bought it while you two were fighting over something stupid — well, I know from personal experience that would suck. And a mopey radio host is almost as bad as a mopey wizard. Anyway, I didn't know you didn't know. So." She releases his phone again.

"Your usual restraint is appreciated, but under the circumstances, so is your intervention," Cecil tells her. He can't bear the thought of Carlos facing — fighting! — Valentine's Day still feeling the way he must have after their argument. "So for this one time, thank you."

"Good. Let's never do this again." And with that, they start working to save Night Vale.

* * *

In many respects the work is horrifying. Cecil is used to hearing the descriptions and seeing pictures of the aftermath, but he's not used to watching it as it happens. But in other respects it's rewarding, as he is able to direct emergency workers where they're needed before anyone else can and even, in several cases, warn people away from hazards that sharp eyes on the monitors catch.

Sometime after midnight, Dr. Rochelle takes over from Dr. Renegade by stealing her chair when she goes to get more coffee and refusing to give it up unless Dr. Renegade can get all the way through the alphabet without yawning. Dr. Renegade tries to argue that wasn't a yawn after R but eventually gives in with poor grace. Shakeena hangs on for several more hours before yielding her space to Master Rawhide.

Cecil, though, is buoyed by twin adrenaline rushes — one of horrified and disgusted helplessness, and one of triumph at successfully wielding information that is delayed and distorted only by his own flawed perceptions to save lives, limbs, and in many cases both. Repeatedly citing "an anonymous network of vigilant citizens and devices", he fills the airwaves with warnings, requests for intervention, and condolences.

The staff back at the radio station feed him filler, like the Water Department's statement calling for the Monkey's Paw Watch to be downgraded further to an Advisory and the Night Vale Daily Journal's new ad-evasion pricing structure. They also slot in the occasional advertisement so he can quickly refresh himself and check on Carlos. With their support, he's able to carry the coverage all the way through to the morning show. Thanks to the scientists' generous supply of honey, he's only slightly hoarse as he reminds his listeners of the brutal nightmare they have experienced before, are experiencing now, and will assuredly experience again, as well as of his confidence that it has not diminished and _cannot_ diminish Night Vale or its citizens.

He wraps up with, "To those of you now joining us, I offer you an unfamiliar but sincere good morning. In just a few moments I will pass our continuing coverage to your usual morning drive-time team. But to those of you who have been working or suffering or enduring throughout this night and remain with me now, I bid you a metaphorical and unbowed good night, Night Vale. Good night."

He shuts down his mobile equipment with a flourish and turns. Everyone else — except Carlos — is awake again by that point, and they offer him a brief and possibly slightly sarcastic but still warm round of applause. He accepts with a weary smile and allows Dr. Reliant to take over his chair.

He shambles over to Carlos but waits for Shakeena's approval to break the circle. He pulls one of the sleeping bags closer. She repeats her vial treatment and then seals Cecil back in with Carlos. Careful not to dislodge the bespelled garments, Cecil carefully wraps himself across Carlos and closes his eyes.

This isn't exactly how he'd pictured sharing the day with Carlos, since he'd wanted him conscious and unhurt, but other than that, it's surprisingly close. He would worry about that, but he's sure this situation is just an ordinary unnerving coincidence.

He murmurs encouraging endearments to Carlos until he falls asleep.


	2. Monday, February 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carlos is … a little different today.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this chapter has been _work_! Good betas, man, wanting things to "make sense". (I can't promise they actually do, but that's not for shadydave's lack of trying!)

Several hours later, Shakeena wakes Cecil so she can try the vial treatment on Carlos once more. Cecil checks the time and realizes he'd have to get up soon anyway, since he'll need to be back at the radio station for his show's usual start in a few hours.

Carlos makes a faint, faint noise when Cecil pulls away, and his nose twitches ever so slightly when Shakeena dabs her liquid on him. He doesn't stir otherwise, even when his phone rings, its observation that _every little thing she does is magic_ muffled by the layers of protective garments. Regardless, Shakeena looks satisfied with her work, even though all she'll say is "Maybe."

She's a little more expansive when Dr. Renegade gets back from escorting the other scientists upstairs to check on their labs and bees. The three talk over a lunch that consists of a random selection of stockpiled, shelf-stable foodstuffs. "He's looking better. Once he wakes up, though, he should probably steer clear of any hardcore magic for a while. He'll definitely need some extra protection if he's going to be getting into any magical fights any time soon."

"He made it sound like they really need him back," Dr. Renegade growls. "Dammit." As if her words were a cue, Carlos's phone rings again, this time noting that _the magical mystery tour is waiting to take you away_. Ignoring it, Dr. Renegade continues, "Half their staffing problems are probably the attrition from rushing the people they _do_ have back out too soon and getting them killed."

"But that's just because they're already short-staffed," Cecil says, equally dissatisfied with the situation. "It's a vicious circle, which is one of the least suitable geometric shapes for domestic possession. I know Carlos tries to make sure his people have the time and the backing they need, but that just means he tries to do more himself, and —"

"And he ends up doing half his opponents' work for them, since he's stretching himself too thin," Dr. Renegade agrees. She stabs the peanut-butter knife back into the jar viciously. "They need more people. And since they have some kind of hang-up about mind-control drafts or resurrecting an army of darkness …."

Cecil belatedly realizes she's joking about those options when Shakeena snorts. He privately thinks the White Council takes their snobbery about dark magic a little far, since they're clearly hobbled without it, but when he tried to suggest a little more open-mindedness … well, Carlos didn't exactly appreciate the idea.

His thoughts along those lines flee like startled bats when he realizes Carlos is stirring. He abandons his salt-and-vinegar oat crackers and rushes over, heedless of the circle, though he regrets his haste when Carlos makes a soft, unhappy sound as the circle breaks. "Carlos? Can you hear me?"

Carlos makes a less pained, more agreeing noise, but it takes him several more seconds to open his eyes. He blinks several times, and once his eyes settle on staying open, he squints a bit in the light. "What —" he tries, his voice rough, but he abandons the question with a wince.

Dr. Renegade brings over a bottle of water. "We're fresh out of straws. And ice chips."

"Carlos, do you think you can sit up a little?"

"… Maybe?"

Cecil can't tell whether Carlos has no confidence in the answer or does not, perhaps, fully understand the question. He slides an arm behind Carlos's shoulders and helps him sit up, mindful of his ribs. For a change, Carlos accepts the help without protest. Once he's finally mostly upright, Cecil helps him drink some of the water.

"How do you feel?" Cecil asks. He's immediately annoyed at himself for asking such a useless question. Carlos always gives the same answer.

"I'm … not sure," Carlos answers slowly, because of course he — what? "Headache, and my chest hurts, and my leg is sore." He looks more directly at Cecil. "But I feel much better knowing you're here with me," he says, with a smile of such simple pleasure that it takes Cecil's breath away for a few seconds before graciously yielding it back.

Cecil ignores the gagging noise Dr. Renegade makes.

Carlos doesn't even seem to notice her commentary. He's shifting his shoulders a little, as if he's not quite comfortable. "Where —?" he starts, looking around, but then he utters a little _aha!_ as he looks down. Pushing his cloak aside carelessly, he extracts his lab coat and then tries to get it on.

Cecil helps him, because maybe Carlos feels cold without it — or maybe its spells work better when it's worn correctly. That's probably it.

Once Carlos has the lab coat on properly, Cecil expects the cloak to come next, but Carlos continues to ignore it. Instead he pats at the pockets of the lab coat until he finds the glasses. He puts those on and smiles at Cecil again. "There, that's better."

Putting the glasses on now makes no sense. Cecil checks Carlos's pupils automatically, but they look fine. Carlos isn't even squinting anymore. So he _probably_ doesn't have a major head injury.

"I take it you can feel all your fingers and toes, then," Dr. Renegade says. "Do you remember what happened?"

Carlos carefully touches the welt on his cheek as he considers the question. "An unexpected exothermic reaction?" he guesses. "Science can be very dangerous," he adds apologetically to Cecil.

Cecil glances over at Dr. Renegade, concerned. When Carlos sounds this disconnected, he's usually _very_ hurt or exhausted. Or both.

"What's the last thing you _do_ remember?" Dr. Renegade asks. "Clearly."

Carlos has to think about that for many seconds. "I … made dinner?" he says finally. He looks up again, worried. "Cecil, _tesoro_ , do you need to be at work? You don't want to be in trouble with station management."

"Not for a few hours yet," Cecil says. Carlos sighs with a rather excessive relief.

"So you don't remember a thorny-tentacled nightmare picking you up by the leg and playing 'Hulk smash' until you _cleverly_ managed to sever the tentacle on the upswing?" Dr. Renegade demands.

Carlos greets the suggestion not with dismay, as Cecil chooses, nor with his usual insufficient regard for his own peril, but with an amused bemusement. "No, nothing like that."

"Or somehow managing to land on top of the _thing_ and playing Jon Snow to its Karl Tanner, which just seemed to make it _even more angry_?"

"No," Carlos says, curiously unconcerned, but then his faint amusement slips into a mild frown. "Please stop, you're upsetting Cecil." Cecil is now clutching Carlos's arm, though he doesn't remember moving. Carlos reaches over with his other hand and pats Cecil reassuringly. "Don't worry, I'm sure it wasn't nearly as exciting as any of _that_."

Dr. Renegade starts to reply but changes her mind. "We lost the closest cameras at that point anyway," she says offhandedly, though she's scrutinizing Carlos with eyes sharp enough to pierce the heart of a collapsed star.

Cecil finds the intensity of her attention unnerving, and he's not even the target, but Carlos just rubs soothing circles on the back of Cecil's hand.

Finally Dr. Renegade runs a hand over her mouth and gives Cecil a warning look before asking Carlos, "Do you actually remember who you are?"

"Sure," Carlos says. "I'm Carlos."

"And?" she prompts when he seems to intend to stop there. "What else? Come on, name, rank, serial number."

He shrugs slightly. "My name is Carlos," he says again, giving her a very familiar grin. "I'm a scientist."

Cecil glances around, but no one new has entered, so there's no reason for him to be using his cover identity. Carlos usually prefers more direct methods of handling secret surveillance, too — not that he would need to worry about that anywhere Dr. Renegade is in charge of. He does have an unusual sense of humor, but he always explains it's a joke whenever anyone doesn't realize he's made one.

"What else?" Dr. Renegade prompts, still giving him a chance to answer her question properly.

"I'm here in Night Vale because it's scientifically fascinating?" he offers, as if he's not sure why she's asking but wants to help. With an adorably flustered pride, he adds, "And I'm Cecil's boyfriend, of course."

"Oh, _of course_ ," she mutters. "Nothing else? You don't remember anything like blowing stuff up with your mind, or swinging around a glowing sword, or just generally doing a crap-ton of magic because you're, you know, a wizard?"

Carlos turns serious. "Oh, no, I'm definitely not a wizard," he tells her firmly.

Cecil runs his fingers through Carlos's hair with rather more urgency than before. Dr. Renegade hisses something about this not being the time, but Cecil is much more concerned with checking for bumps or sore points. "You're _sure_ you didn't hit your head?" he asks.

Carlos tolerates the check patiently, but when Cecil is done, he takes one of Cecil's hands and squeezes it. "I don't think so. Don't worry. I'm really not very hurt at all."

"What do you mean you're _definitely not_ a wizard?" Dr. Renegade sounds rattled. "Did you get fired or something?"

"No, I just mean I'm sure I'm not one," Carlos says. He sounds, of all things, _amused_ for a moment, but then he wrinkles his nose. "Ugh, _wizards_. I mean, magic's fine — I suppose; I study science, not magic — but wizards are just so — so secretive and untrustworthy. All that dubious judgment and nefarious scheming. Who wants _them_ around?"

The opinion sounds uncomfortably familiar, as if it's an old style Cecil outgrew and would rather forget but is now seeing in use as an unironic hand-me-down.

Shakeena snorts and then pretends it was a cough. Dr. Renegade is glaring at _Cecil_ like she wants to set him on fire with her eyes, which he fervently hopes isn't a skill she's developed, but at Shakeena's interruption, she turns sharply. "You have anything here? Did we pick up some kind of — of clone or copy or something? It's not like this would be the first time there was more than one of him, but …."

Shakeena is already shaking her head. "He looks normal — well, as normal as he ever does." Carlos takes no offense, because he's ignoring the conversation in favor of settling his head on Cecil's shoulder. "He's definitely human and it's not someone else projecting an illusion. Something like that sandstorm a few years ago could have spawned a copy, but I didn't feel anything like that outside. That's all I can tell without digging around in his head, which is illegal, dangerous, and rude as hell. Can we stand him up?"

Cecil nudges Carlos to get his attention and helps him stand. His leg is able to support him, but he avoids putting more weight on it than he has to, telegraphing weakness in a way he normally _never would_.

Shakeena studies him for a while but doesn't seem to find anything particular. Clearly bracing herself, she sticks her hand out at Carlos. "You remember me, right?"

Carlos takes her hand automatically. "Sure. You're Cecil's friend. Shakeena Flynn, age 29."

Back before Cecil learned Carlos was a wizard, he introduced them to each other, and they both played along. It took him a long time to realize that they had already known each other since long before Cecil had met Carlos, though they weren't necessarily on the most friendly terms back then.

Shakeena doesn't look hurt at the denial now. She's staring down at their joined hands. "Okay, this is way above my pay grade," she says as she lets go.

Carlos looks down at his own hand a little oddly before flexing it a few times and dismissing the matter in favor of smiling at Cecil for no apparent reason.

"Maybe it's low blood sugar," Cecil suggests, a little wildly.

"It's worth a try," Dr. Renegade says. After Cecil guides Carlos over to the little eating area and gets him settled in, she grabs a bottle of sports drink and plunks it down in front of Carlos. "Hydrate, too. Can't hurt, probably. Meanwhile, we're going to have an emergency sidebar." She grabs Cecil by the shirt and drags him to the other end of the bunker, Shakeena following at a more reasonable pace.

Once they get there, Dr. Renegade releases Cecil and turns. "Whatever you did, _undo it_ ," she demands. It's a small bunker, so she keeps her voice low, but it's no less dangerous for being quiet.

"What I — I didn't do anything!" Cecil says. "I was at work when he got hurt. And after that I was here. And how would I — _why_ would I —"

"Oh, please. You could go anywhere in the world, grab the first stranger you see, and set them down in front of the two of you, and within five minutes they would know the biggest problem between you is his wizard job. And now, _suddenly_ , that's not an issue anymore, because suddenly, he doesn't think he's a wizard anymore. Suddenly he thinks he's exactly what he told you he was when you first met him, exactly what you rhapsodized about and pined for on your show, exactly what you thought he was and wanted him to be for _years_ —"

"It was not years!" Cecil protests.

She scoffs. "It was more than one!"

"It was less than two!" he insists. Not much less than two years, admittedly, but still. He will fight for that technicality.

She waves the point off. "And all his attention is on you, like you've somehow attained the bizarrely hypnotic power of his hair. He's suddenly everything _you_ could want, just when we've had a week of warnings not to make any wishes because a monkey's paw contaminated the water supply — which, by the way, is gross. You do see where I'm going with this, right?"

Cecil glances over to see that Carlos is, in fact, watching him contentedly. Carlos brightens when they make eye contact. Cecil smiles at him automatically before turning back to the conversation.

He scrubs a hand over his face wearily. "I am not an amateur, Dr. Juliet Soon-Hee 'Renegade' Kwan." He's usually careful to address people the way they indicate, but his indignation requires a full name. "I haven't made a wish in weeks. The surveillance logs will back me up on that. I've been screened three times that I know of to be sure I haven't been exposed, because station management isn't likely to take chances after what happened the last time there was a Wish Event and I don't want to give them any excuse to cancel me. Or my show. And the water probably wasn't contaminated."

He explained all this already, but apparently _some people_ don't pay full attention to his show.

"Yes, there was a leak at the Unwise Magical Artifact Strategic Reserve, and there was a _chance_ the monkeys' paws leached into the groundwater. But there hasn't been any confirmation that actually happened, much less that it got all the way into the city water supply. The wish restriction is just a standard, precautionary, knee-jerk municipal overreaction. I ran all the faucets at home for half an hour more than the Water Department suggested to make sure the lines were clear anyway. I even looked into installing a ritual purification filter on the line into our building, because I didn't want Carlos to get home and detect traces of dark magic in the faucet. I don't see enough of him as it is — I don't want him tied up in the three weeks of sacrifices and chanting needed for a permit to exorcise more than an arm's length of plumbing."

Dr. Renegade keeps glaring at him for a while, but eventually she shakes her head. "Okay, fine. I thought that whole thing was weird anyway. Isn't water supposed to cancel out magic?" She makes a face. "And wait, if so, how would a magical _water filter_ even work?"

"It was a scam," Shakeena sighs. "Jae just got their flim-flam license and they're a little too enthusiastic. I had a chat with them. But yes, _running_ water usually cancels out most kinds of magic. Which doesn't mean there isn't water- _based_ magic, or that magic can't be used on water at all — our Warden there, he does water magic all the time. It's complicated."

"Then … could the paws have leached into the water in the first place or not?"

Shakeena and Cecil share a look — outsider magical education is _tragic_ — before Shakeena answers. "They could. Let me guess, you've heard the 'curse' version? Well, whatever they teach you in your fancy science school, a monkey's paw is the preferred lair of a certain type of chaos spirit whose numbers are legion and whose forms are tiny."

"Like eyelash mites," says Cecil. "Except with fewer incendiary devices."

Shakeena nods. "They're so small that even if parts of the paw break or rub off, the fragments can still be corrupted with dozens or hundreds of spirits — it's more possession than enchantment. The spirits are what listen for wishes and make them happen. It's _possible_ a few could hang on to small particles in the water system, and you really wouldn't want to ingest them. But it's unlikely, unless you're drinking directly from a stagnant well after someone tossed a decaying paw into it."

"Which is why stagnant wells require a permit and three character witnesses," Cecil points out.

"What, possessed wheat products weren't enough?" Dr. Renegade asks. "Remind me to have somebody look into just how many things can be expected to have evil spirits in them around here." She gestures towards Carlos. "So what's wrong with him? What was the handshake about?"

"I have no idea what's wrong with him. I was actually hoping it was a wish thing." Shakeena shrugs when Cecil gives her a betrayed look. "It would explain a lot. More than I can, anyway. The handshake … for most practitioners, shaking hands with a Warden is usually like grabbing the business end of a second-grader's Taser."

"And that just now?"

"Like grabbing the business end of a second-grader's _malfunctioning_ Taser. You can tell it's fully loaded, but it doesn't discharge when it should and you can't be sure it won't just blow up in your face." Cecil nods, remembering that year and the resulting PTA outrage well, as Shakeena continues, "It felt like his power was still _there_ , just … all folded in on itself somehow. If you want more than that, you'll need a psychomancer — and good luck finding one, because most of what they can do tends to get them beheaded."

"That's just great," Dr. Renegade mutters. "So what now? Should we insist? Try to force him to remember?"

"How?" Shakeena asks. "Even if he could use his magic right now, and I have no idea about that, you can't do magic you don't believe in. As long as he's convinced he's not a wizard … he basically isn't. And considering the state of his psyche, if this is something imposed and you make him try to fight it off …."

"He might go _Scanners_ on us," Dr. Renegade concludes.

"Could it be reeducation?" Cecil suggests. If anyone would want to get rid of Carlos-the-wizard without risking the public reaction to losing Carlos-the-scientist, it would be public officials, if any of them made the link. And … "Maybe it's someone's revenge for our sting operation last month?"

Dr. Renegade looks dubious, but not at the suggestion of revenge itself. "Who's left to _want_ revenge?"

She has a point. Carlos was _not happy_ about Cecil acting as bait to draw out the latest dark-magic practitioner to infiltrate the reeducation staff. Oh, he agreed that Cecil had every right to risk himself if he wanted to, and he didn't try to forbid Cecil from participating or anything like that, but he was in an absolutely foul mood the entire time. Cecil actually had fun with all the intrigue and code words, and he thinks Dr. Renegade enjoyed her role, but Carlos chose to express his far less positive feelings through the medium of particularly determined enforcement. Cecil scored himself a nice forced vacation but then spent most of it alone as Carlos tracked down every tendril of the barely formed coven.

"Doesn't fit," Shakeena says. "If he had been reeducated with dark magic, especially something this thorough, it'd be a really obvious hack job unless they had months to do it. Maybe years. He's a mess, but not that kind of a mess."

"And wouldn't something have shown up before now?" Dr. Renegade adds. "He's been wizarding up a storm lately, and he was fine when he headed out for Valentine's Day. It's not like anyone could have done it then, either — we can account for his movements for pretty much the entire day, and he checked in a few times, too. There were a few coverage gaps, but nothing more than a few minutes at a time."

"That wouldn't be nearly long enough," Shakeena confirms.

Could it be someone manipulating Carlos, the way Violet used Cecil to protect Dana? Considering how carelessly Carlos willed possession of himself to Cecil, when Cecil was right in the middle of hiding from corporate justice atop the radio station, it's entirely possible he could have lost or even handed control over himself to someone unsuitable.

The prospect is horrifying.

Then again … when Cecil was being controlled, he apparently left what he was doing, saved Dana, went back, and remembered nothing of the interruption. As soul-crushing as that was to experience, he at least understood the superficial purpose even at the time. Who would take control of Carlos just to have him forget his wizard self and — yes, continue to watch Cecil, as peacefully as if he's watching a sunrise that bothers to show up and isn't all that loud?

Even if this is all due to some perfectly natural kind of inexplicable dissociation or existential realignment, Cecil can't help wanting to bundle Carlos up in blankets and Kevlar and spirit him away for safekeeping.

"Should I just take him home?" Cecil asks. "Maybe being there would help him remember himself more naturally. But I really do have to go to work, so he'd be alone for hours."

Dr. Renegade makes a derisive noise. "He's still an adult, and he may be profoundly confused but he seems approximately coherent. He can probably manage a few hours alone. He shouldn't be a particular danger to himself, even now." She hesitates. "Well, any more than usual. Hmm … I'll see if I can find someone to go along. Or he can always just stay here."

"It might not be a bad idea to get him out of here," Shakeena says. "He just changed these wards, and they irritate you like an itch you can't scratch until you get used to them. The protections at your place are better anyway. But you have to figure out how to get him home safely — and I don't mean from the aftermath of Valentine's Day, either. He's an interlo— he didn't grow up here. He does pretty well for an outsider, but if you take him outside with no protections when his defenses are down …." She trails off ominously.

Cecil contributes to the conversation by trying not to hyperventilate.

"So he basically needs, what, a post-psychic-concussion helmet?" Dr Renegade asks. "Can't you do something? I know he's worked with you before when he needed local help."

"And you helped ward our place," Cecil adds desperately. She's mostly friendly with Carlos now. Surely she'll help protect him.

Shakeena looks tired. "Our whole chapter put those wards up. I guess I can try, but I didn't bring any blank crystals or pendants. I'd need something he'll keep with him, preferably something he'd wear. Nothing with spells already on it, obviously."

So not the cloak — which Carlos doesn't seem likely to be willing to wear anyway — or the lab coat. "He has a couple of charms he usually wears," Cecil offers. "His father's dog tags and a religious medal from his mother of a woman offering free hugs."

" _No_. Not anything with that kind of personal significance. Let me think about it."

They head back over to Carlos, who picks up the oat crackers and holds them out to Cecil. "Hungry?"

"Not right now, but thank you." Cecil's stomach is too busy twisting in anxious knots to be concerned with food. "Are you feeling better?"

"Well, less hungry," Carlos says agreeably. He sets down the crackers and tangles his fingers in Cecil's. "I must have been so distracted by science I forgot to eat. Thanks for reminding me."

He seems so _content_. Cecil is consumed with worry, of course, because he doesn't want any part of who Carlos really is to just be forgotten or erased, but if Carlos is so much happier now, does that mean he's usually unhappy? What if he would prefer to stay as he is now instead of trying to go back to being a wizard? What would that mean for — for _everything_? But how can he make an informed choice if he doesn't know he has a choice — and they can't tell him without hurting him? _Does_ he have a choice, or is this permanent? If it's permanent, is it better for him not to know after all? Is _anything_ permanent? Can they ever truly know anything?

Carlos's happiness turns to concern as he registers Cecil's distress. Luckily, Shakeena distracts him just then. "Carlos, let me have your glasses for a minute."

Carlos draws back slightly. "I need them."

"No you don't," Dr. Renegade says. Carlos again doesn't seem to notice, and she raises her voice. "Shakeena just needs to adjust them for you. She can … optimize their refractive properties. She'll give them back, right?"

"In just a few minutes," Shakeena agrees.

"Oh! Oh, sure." He hands over the glasses with only a little obvious reluctance. Without them, he's squinting slightly again, even though the glasses are _fake_ and _do nothing_ to his vision.

Shakeena takes the glasses over to the sleeping area to work on them. Cecil thinks it might be best to keep Carlos distracted from magic-working, even if he so far claims to dislike only wizards in particular, so he steps closer and pets Carlos's hair. Carlos relaxes into the gesture, closing his eyes and allowing his head to rest against Cecil's abdomen.

When Shakeena actually starts chanting quietly, Carlos twitches and then reaches up a few times to rub at the back of his neck, as if he feels spiders sneaking their way up it. Cecil checks to be sure, but he can see there aren't any, unless of course they're too small to see. So that seems like a good sign, right? That even if Carlos doesn't remember, he still seems to be able to feel magic being done? Or, no, she seems to have made a new circle, so maybe he can't feel the magic but the chanting reminds him of it anyway?

Cecil doesn't get any answers, but he does get an effective distraction from the questions when Shakeena finishes her chant, breaks the circle, and then topples over.

Dr. Renegade gets to her before Cecil can untangle himself from Carlos. "Are you okay? What happened?"

Shakeena waves a weary hand. "I'll … be okay," she manages. "But I'm out."

Dr. Renegade grabs a pillow and shoves it under Shakeena's feet before picking up the glasses and bringing them over. "Let's hope these work," she says, handing them to Cecil. Cecil passes them to Carlos, who is clearly relieved to put them back on.

"Carlos, do you want to try to go home?" Cecil asks. "I can get you all settled in before I have to go to the radio station."

"Oh, that would be nice," Carlos says, beaming up at Cecil. "But — I don't know if I can —" He looks over at Dr. Renegade. "Is that allowed, or do I have to stay?"

"What am I, your mother?" says Dr. Renegade.

"No, ma'am, I'm sorry. I just mean — I don't know if I worked a full shift," he clarifies.

Carlos certainly respects Dr. Renegade, but their relationship has always appeared to be one of friendly equals who communicate in insults. Now, though … he's strangely deferential, in a way Cecil has only ever seen with the older members of Carlos's family or overheard in work conversations on the phone — and even then, only briefly.

Dr. Renegade looks unsettled, though Cecil can't tell if that's by the attitude or the question. "Oh. Yeah, you're benched," she says. "Standard, um, post-incident protocol. Check in tomorrow or something. Just … go away for now. I mean — wait a few minutes first. I need to go talk to the others. I'll get one of them to take you all." She turns and leaves abruptly.

Cecil takes another sports drink and goes over to check on Shakeena. "Are you sure you're okay?"

She sits up carefully and accepts the bottle. "Yeah. I just can't do that again anytime soon. I hope it'll be enough." She takes several slow sips. "Even if it is, you have to make sure he keeps those glasses on whenever he's not inside his own wards. And keep him away from powerful psychic influences."

"How will I know?" asks Cecil, panic rolling in. "I'm no practitioner —"

"You know, whenever you hear the screaming inside your head that's not yours," says Shakeena. "Just like you learned in high school. Those glasses should be enough to protect him against the normal crushing weight of doom, but they're not going to hold up against much more than that."

"I'm sure you did a great job," he says weakly.

"Oh, honey." She pats his shoulder in sympathy. "You'll do fine."

Several minutes later, after Shakeena has managed to climb to her feet, Dr. Renegade comes back into the bunker carrying Carlos's duffel. "Okay, Kate — that's 'Dr. Rochelle' to you," she tells Shakeena, "— is going to take you all. Head on up, but don't leave the building just yet. I'll be up in a minute." She just watches as they all turn away.

Shakeena is a little shaky but manages the stairs on her own. Carlos doesn't seem to need Cecil's steadying hand, but he accepts it without complaint.

Upstairs, the other scientists are all in the larger lab, and as soon as they see Carlos, they stop talking in favor of staring at him. After an awkward silence, Dr. Renaissance ventures, "So, Carlos. It's good to see you up. You're feeling better, I hope?"

"Oh, sure," Carlos says. "I'm sure I'll be fine by tomorrow."

"Good!" says Dr. Renaissance. "Good."

There's another awkward silence.

Master Rawhide coughs. "So how's the, um, the science going?" he asks. When Dr. Rochelle jabs her elbow into his ribs, he shifts away and adds, "I mean, what was it you were experimenting with, again?"

Carlos's sheepish grin is _amazing_. "Well, apparently I had a setback," he says, "but I'm sure I'll work it out soon. A scientist is persistent."

Master Rawhide gives Dr. Rochelle a significant look, she frowns, and Dr. Reliant coughs pointedly.

"Everyone ready?" Dr. Renegade demands from behind Cecil. "Or is it gawk-at-the-bachelor's-candidate time already?"

The younger scientists startle and hustle off to various tasks. Cecil reminds himself not to have a heart attack because she doesn't mean _that_ kind of bachelor.

Dr. Renegade pulls Cecil aside and hands him the duffel. "I put all the magic stuff I could find in here. If he does remember soon, he'll want it close."

Cecil shifts the mobile-broadcasting equipment bag to make room for the duffel. "That's very thoughtful. Thank you."

"Look. No accusations, just … are you _sure_ you didn't do anything that could have caused this? Even accidentally? I got the impression you didn't take the news he was leaving again well, and the timing …."

Cecil knows she's only pushing because she cares about Carlos, too, but it's still frustrating. "No, I didn't take it well, but we talked. And yesterday I was actually relieved that his leaving meant he was at least safe from Valentine's Day because I _didn't know he wasn't_ ," he reminds her.

"Okay." She doesn't sound convinced, but she doesn't really sound suspicious either, and Cecil has to settle for that. She raises her voice. "Kate, they're all yours."

Dr. Rochelle finishes uprighting a piece of equipment and dusts her hands. "Everyone ready? They're still cleaning up out there, so look sharp."

She's probably the only one of them truly able to obey that instruction at the moment. Carlos is injured, entirely without his magic, and apparently uninterested in any of his surroundings that aren't Cecil himself. Shakeena's magic is temporarily spent, and while she's lightly armed and keeping herself upright, she keeps swaying whenever she can't use a wall for support. Cecil is tired, weighed down with equipment, and alarmingly unarmed, and the scientists have neglected to establish the common "take a weapon/leave a weapon" tray that is standard at most walk-in businesses. He just hopes Dr. Rochelle is as quick with the sidearm she's now wearing as she was with the flamethrower earlier.

Cecil goes over to Carlos and immediately has his full attention. "Listen, I know you think you're all right — or mostly all right — but you might feel worse outside. If you do, _tell_ me, okay? Right away."

"Sure," Carlos says easily. Too easily.

"Promise?"

"I _promise_ ," Carlos assures him.

Cecil is pretty sure he's just being humored, and he still isn't confident in this plan, but it's probably worth trying. He bites his lip and nods.

Dr. Rochelle eases the door open and checks both ways before motioning for them all to follow. Cecil goes out next, so he can keep a better eye on Carlos as he passes through the wards.

Carlos steps out the door with confidence but pauses after only two steps, wincing. "Cecil? I … um … I need a second," he says, pressing a hand to his head.

Cecil rushes back to him. "Carlos?!"

Carlos breathes deeply a few times, his eyes closed. "It's okay," he says. "It's just … really loud." There are multiple emergency sirens wailing across the city, but those were clear as soon as the door opened, so Cecil doesn't think that's what he means.

"We can go back in," Cecil says. "Is it the normal screaming, or extra screaming?"

"No, it's okay now." He blinks and shakes his head carefully, gently dislodging some kind of discomfort. "I just had to get used to it. I'd rather go home."

He's pale but steady now. When Cecil looks to Shakeena for guidance, she nods wearily.

"I'm sorry," Carlos adds. "I thought you were worrying too much. I didn't take your warning as seriously as I should have. I don't mean to seem dismissive. I really do respect your experience and opinions."

Well, of course he does. Why would he fear that one instance of underestimating his own level of injury might make Cecil doubt that? "I — thank you, Carlos," Cecil says, too startled for anything else. This is getting just too weird. Shakeena has to poke him to get them moving again.

Dr. Rochelle lets Cecil and Carlos draw up even with her. "See, you've already got this," she whispers on Carlos's other side. "That was great partner communication." Carlos looks equally puzzled and pleased as she moves away again, picking up speed so she can unlock the car.

They're just a few paces away from Dr. Renegade's Prius when Cecil hears a faint rustle. In a flash — metaphorically — Carlos is knocking Cecil back protectively with one arm and whipping one of his knives through the air with the other hand. The knife flies past Shakeena's nose, neatly spearing something midair, and continues a few more feet before clattering off the support pole of the nearby no-ennui-zone sign.

A lace heart flutters weakly, too weighed down by the knife to rise.

Dr. Rochelle lights a match and drops it on the heart. Once the heart has flared up into ash, she picks up the knife and hands it back to Carlos. "Quick, in the car," she says, heading for the driver's door.

"I never saw it," Shakeena says, shaken. "Thanks."

" _De nada_ ," Carlos says, watching carefully for any more straggling hearts. "It's all in the physics." He gestures for the others to get in the car first. As soon as Cecil is in, he reaches to pull Carlos in after him.

Once his door is closed, Carlos puts the knife back into its sheath in an inner pocket of his lab coat and then looks Cecil over thoroughly. "You're okay?"

Cecil nods. He's relieved they all got into the car safely, even if he's now slightly squished by equipment bags. He's also relieved that, whatever else may be wrong, Carlos at least still has his lightning-fast reflexes to protect him.

But Cecil's heart is pounding from the close encounter. He's tired physically and exhausted emotionally. He still has an entire show to get through later. He _doesn't understand what's wrong with Carlos_.

He doesn't want to admit that this version of Carlos has a lot of appeal.

"It's been a long weekend," he finds himself saying. "And it's not really over yet. I'm … worried." He suspects it's not safe to tell Carlos most of the things he's worried about, but has so little practice holding anything back from Carlos — which adds the worry that he'll make things worse by letting the wrong thing slip.

Carlos doesn't press him for details. He just reaches over and carefully extracts one of Cecil's hands from all the equipment so he can hold it as he watches Cecil with concern.

Cecil just relaxes into the devoted attention. He can feel guilty about it later.

* * *

Dr. Rochelle drops off Shakeena first, making sure she gets all the way inside safely, and then parks at Carlos and Cecil's building. She accompanies them inside.

"Standard post-incident protocol," she says breezily when Carlos is puzzled by her presence. "Monitoring for the first twenty-four hours — well, more or less, depending on how the clocks feel that day."

Cecil is starting to wonder just how much of this "standard protocol" is being invented on the spot.

"So I'll just hang out here while Cecil's doing his show," she continues. "I can take off for a couple of hours now if you guys want some privacy before the show, though."

Cecil would love some privacy, almost as much as he would love a _nap_ , but there's not enough time. "No, people should stay off the streets except for necessary travel," he says, unlocking the door of their apartment. "You should come in. Thanks for staying."

"No problem! I'm happy to help. I don't really get many chances to return the favor, you know?"

Carlos sighs with obvious relief the moment the door closes behind them. "It's good to be home," he says. Cecil suspects the wards are an important factor too, since a little bit of color is finally starting to tiptoe back into Carlos's alarmingly pale cheeks, but … it _is_ good to be home.

Not that he can stay long. "Please, make yourself comfortable," he tells Dr. Rochelle as he sets the mobile-broadcasting equipment bag next to the door. He takes the duffel of magical equipment and stores it in the closet; one of them can go through it later. "I need to shower and change." He's coming off a day and a half of bunkers and napping in his clothes and stress, with a full day of work before that. He's firm about his current priorities.

Carlos looks down at himself. He changed clothes at some point since he left the apartment so abruptly, probably at the labs, because he's wearing dark fatigues under the lab coat. Which really ought to make him think, actually, since he's always been surprised that no one in Night Vale ever questions the combination when he has to go undercover in a hurry, but now he either doesn't notice or ignores the discrepancy. "I think I need a shower, too," he says. "Want to shower together?"

Carlos is usually a little shy about certain topics in front of certain people, but he's showing no sign of shyness at the moment, and Dr. Rochelle certainly isn't the sort of person to judge them for talking openly about the idea. Unfortunately — "I don't really have time for anything except actually, you know. Showering."

"That's okay." Carlos doesn't sound disappointed, shyly or otherwise. "It'll still be more efficient if we share."

Carlos once tried to explain something about sharing a shower for the sake of efficiency being a joke, but his explanation was very confusing and they managed to distract themselves thoroughly before Cecil ever quite understood what he was trying to say.

Right now, Carlos is entirely sincere.

Cecil hesitates a moment longer, because his boyfriend is almost, but not _quite_ completely, himself. Somehow, this specific situation never came up in their discussions or in their official relationship paperwork. But just seeing each other without clothes is _far_ within their mutual "don't even need to ask" boundaries, and Carlos has never objected to the idea of showering together unless he's covered in something he doesn't want to expose Cecil to, so if he's the one suggesting it now, it should be fine. Probably.

Then Cecil imagines having been _outside_ , on _Valentine's Day_ , actually _fighting_ , and there's no way he's asking Carlos to wait even a second longer than he has to for a shower after _that_. There could be chalk heart dust, or rose petals, or even _chocolate_ — "Okay." It's not like they'll get up to anything more interesting anyway.

Dr. Rochelle settles herself on the couch and waves cheerfully as they head for the bathroom.

One advantage to showering together is helping each other undress, which in this case is not about arousal but about preventing strain on Carlos's sore ribs. They set the lab coat carefully aside but pile the rest of their clothes together to be washed — at a minimum, and possibly purified or burned — later.

Carlos is again reluctant to take off the glasses and leaves them until last. Cecil almost gives in and tells him he can keep them on, which under other circumstances might have potential and right now just seems easier, but then he realizes that might mean literally rinsing all of Shakeena's hard work down the drain. He persuades Carlos to take off the glasses.

The bruising across Carlos's chest is already vivid and will be lurid within a day or two. The mark on his cheek is starting to fill in its own sullen colors. Both his hands have been scratched and spot-burned. Cecil hates to see the injuries, but Carlos has been in much worse condition than this. Many times.

They wash up quickly, Cecil taking care of washing Carlos's hair both because it's faster and because it's a comfort for both of them. Cecil then applies disinfectant to the scratches and the welt before they head to their bedroom.

Cecil throws on the first clean garments he finds so he can help Carlos into a comfortable pair of pants. He picks up the shirt Carlos selected. Then he starts to shake.

"What's — hey. Hey. It's okay." Carlos gets him to sit on the edge of the bed and then just holds him.

Cecil didn't know. For years he didn't know. Carlos could have died out there, right in the middle of the worst of everything Cecil was reporting on, and Cecil still _wouldn't have known_.

And worse, if Carlos died in Night Vale with his hood up, would Cecil _ever_ have known? Would he have thought Carlos just disappeared forever?

This year, the scientists would have told him, eventually, once they realized he didn't know. They wouldn't have left him wondering forever. But before this year, and before last year when Carlos wasn't even able to get to Night Vale, Valentine's Day could have claimed Carlos with no trace.

Cecil knows Carlos is regularly in danger and has faced death numerous times, before and after they met. Carlos has explained at least vague details for many of those occasions, when they've come up. The one time he won't talk about, Cecil knows enough about bite scars to make some pretty good guesses. All of that is safely in the past and can't take Carlos away from him now.

But _Valentine's Day_ — the thought of losing Carlos to _that_ fills him with a visceral horror.

Part of Carlos still hasn't come back from that fight. What if he never does?

A numb corner of Cecil's mind thinks that's why he can't just accept the passage of his current terror into the usual mix of regret and relief. Until all of Carlos is back with him, Valentine's Day hasn't ended, and he can't consign it to the happily faulty realm of memory.

The part of Carlos that did come back holds Cecil until the shaking passes. He doesn't pry, and he doesn't insist everything will be fine or try to gently distract Cecil with humor. He's just quietly supportive. It's nice, yes, but it's … strange.

Cecil shifts to return the sort-of-hug briefly, because he _is_ grateful. "I need to get to work," he says.

"Okay, sweetie," Carlos says, with no reluctance. He kisses Cecil on the side of the head and releases him. "Help me get my shirt on?"

Cecil does, smoothing the fabric down carefully when he's done. "Stay here, please, until I come home?"

"Of course! I wouldn't want to miss your show."

Has Carlos forgotten he _can't_ miss Cecil's show, even if he tries? Sure, he might sleep through it, or he might not be able to hear it clearly over the noise of battle or especially enthusiastic science, but he'll never be able to escape it, thanks to the curse laid on him all those years ago. That particular doom has nothing to do with wizardry, either; the City Council used to use it against anyone they wanted to destroy. Though wizards always _were_ some of their favorite nemeses.

Carlos is regarding Cecil with fond tolerance. "I promise I'll take it easy. I'll just listen to your show and then make us a nice dinner. All right?"

"You don't have to cook," Cecil protests. Though dinner may be challenging if he doesn't. There probably aren't enough leftovers, especially if Dr. Rochelle stays to eat, and Carlos isn't as willing as Cecil is to just grab and reheat something. And food establishments won't reopen until tomorrow at the very earliest.

"I like to cook," Carlos reminds him.

That is true, despite the perils of food preparation. "We'll see."

They head back out to the den and get Carlos settled on the other end of the couch from Dr. Rochelle. Cecil sets the radio to a comfortable volume. It sounds like they've pulled in a feature contributor for the early-afternoon coverage, but even as Cecil listens, the contributor breaks off in the middle of an update to argue with an intern about the correct way to burp development names.

"Go on," Dr. Rochelle urges when Cecil groans. "We'll be fine here. I'll call if anything comes up. Have a good show!"

Carlos tugs Cecil down for a goodbye kiss, which lasts a little longer than Cecil really intends. Then Cecil grabs the mobile-equipment bag and hurries out the door.

Then he goes back in and borrows the keys to Dr. Renegade's Prius, since his own car is still at the radio station.

* * *

A radio show is more than just sitting in front of a live microphone and talking, and today Cecil has done none of his usual prep. When he happens to mention that Carlos was hurt, though, the interns rally and help him dig up enough material to fill most of the spaces between post-disaster updates. He finds himself philosophizing in the rest of his time, which is normal enough, but he prefers to work these things out ahead of time, because he doesn't always like conclusions he reaches unplanned. He may have long practice, but philosophy is still a hazardous endeavor.

(As opposed to Philosophy, which is merely an obnoxious endeavor.)

No unpleasant revelations overtake him, fortunately, and he's able to wrap up his show at the usual time. The emergency crews have made good progress, and the overall citywide threat level is officially all the way down to Wary Dread, so Cecil is even able to end the continuing coverage and pass the airtime over to the next installment of their popular new home-embalming series.

When he gets home, the den is dark even though he knows Carlos is home — a familiar combination. Cecil's heart leaps at the thought that the power might have been knocked out by the vagaries of a wizard's magic, but then it awkwardly ducks back into place when he sees that most of the lights are just turned off. Carlos is asleep on the couch and Dr. Rochelle has moved to the kitchen table, where the lights are stubbornly bright.

"He fell asleep during the weather," she whispers as she gathers up her papers. "His phone rang a couple of times, but he didn't notice. I think he's about the same, sorry. Maybe he just needs more sleep, though — real sleep, I mean, not just being knocked out. He gets a little weird when he's tired."

"He's never _completely forgotten_ he's a wizard before," Cecil says, a little more sharply than he intends. He takes a deep, shaky breath. "Sorry."

She hasn't taken offense, fortunately. "Is a hug okay?"

"Yes …?" Cecil doesn't understand what seems to be a non sequitur at first. It's only when she wraps her arms around him that he realizes she was asking permission and not simply, if randomly, categorizing concepts.

He might be a little out of it himself.

Her hug is supportive, friendly, and brief. "You'll get through this. I'm not going to offer my subjective assessment of the strength your relationship as a way of predicting how you'll do or anything like that, but I have confidence in you. Both of you."

 _That makes one of us_ , Cecil thinks dismally, but that's not fair. He and Carlos have gotten through a lot and they're getting pretty good at it. Dr. Rochelle's optimism is usually contagious; he hopes exposure to their prior relationship successes has lowered his resistance. "Thanks. Would you like to stay for dinner?"

"Oh, thanks, but no. I've got plans, and if you're trying to stick to familiar routines for Carlos, me being around wouldn't help with that. You need anything before I go, though?"

Cecil doesn't, and he sees her out before going back to Carlos.

Carlos is sitting up, mostly, his head turned a little to the side against the back of the couch. The angle is setting his glasses slightly askew. A quilt from one of his innumerable relatives is tucked across his lap.

Cecil _loves_ watching Carlos sleep. He looks so defenseless, but Carlos has demonstrated many times that's only illusion, so it's less panic-inducing than it is charming. The constant crushing responsibility that tightens his expression most of the time melts away, making him look peaceful and content. The tiny bit of drool — even in this position, which is pretty impressive — is adorable.

Carlos … doesn't love being watched in his sleep. He tolerates it in small doses, but he always feels it if he's in anything but the deepest sleep, and he calls it creepy as he wakes up fully.

Usually.

Now, even though Cecil sits on the arm of the couch right next to him and watches for far longer than he ever has before, Carlos doesn't wake or even stir. Cecil suspects he could watch as long as he wanted.

The thought isn't as appealing as he would have expected. He reaches over and strokes Carlos's hair. "Carlos?"

Carlos wakes slowly. "Cecil?" He blinks in confusion at the darkened den. "Oh, did I miss the end of your show? I'm sorry. I really wanted to listen to the whole thing." He yawns. "Were you watching me sleep?"

"Yes," Cecil admits, but Carlos doesn't proceed to call it creepy. He just smiles and shakes his head a little, as if he thinks it's silly but harmless.

Cecil has to ride out a wave of unease. (On their Christmas trip, Carlos took him for a very brief and _very_ heavily armed trip to the ocean to experience surfing, as if the ocean itself wasn't unnerving enough, so Cecil now has a greatly expanded reference library of unpleasant sensations.) Once it releases him, he asks, "Do you just want to go to bed? You really do need to rest." So, for that matter, does Cecil.

"No, I promised dinner," Carlos says around another yawn.

As they're foraging for something simple, Carlos's cell phone starts ringing. It turns out to be in a pocket of the lab coat, which turns out to be hanging next to the front door now. Unfortunately, by the time Cecil locates it, the caller has given up, and Cecil doesn't remember Carlos using a ringtone that demands to know _what's going on?_ for anyone. The display has gone back to sleep.

Carlos doesn't know who it was either, which isn't much of a surprise when it turns out he didn't even know it was his phone ringing. He doesn't bother to check the call history when Cecil hands him the phone. "They'll call back if it's important," he says, putting the phone on the counter so he can go back to studying the contents of the fridge with Cecil.

The phone rings again a minute later, this time asking _what's the matter here_ , which Cecil wouldn't have guessed was to Carlos's taste. Then again, Carlos often expresses bewilderment at his own ringtones. Personal technology has been a steep learning curve for him.

Carlos checks the display impatiently. "It's just gibberish," he says, silencing the call and putting the phone back down. "It's probably some kind of marketer. Sorry."

A couple of minutes after that, just as Carlos is agreeing with surprisingly little reluctance to a skimpy dinner of microwave-reheated enchilada leftovers with store-bought tortilla chips, the landline rings. Cecil sighs and answers, being closer, but in response there's just silence and then a soft click.

"Looks like they hung up, Cecil," the surveillance officer says. "Sorry. The number's blocked, but it was an _outside_ line."

"Maybe it was a wrong number, then," Cecil says, because that does happen sometimes. "Thanks."

But he's not really surprised when his own cell phone starts ringing about ten minutes later. He answers around a mouthful of food, because he is hungry and he is tired and he doesn't have the energy to deal with this, and if some ethereal spirit is haunting the phone system as a prank again, he is prepared to be very rude indeed.

"Hi, Cecil," says Dr. Renegade. Cecil swallows hastily and sits up. "Look, you should know Carlos's boss is trying to check in. I covered for him. Well, I told her he's technically conscious but not in any condition to report for duty, which is has the benefit of being accurate, so with any luck he won't have to deal with any kind of quasi-military baloney later. Any chance I was too hasty and you guys already found the pocket watch?"

Cecil has been working on his Science fluency for a few years now, but it's a subtle language, and some of its idioms clearly elude exhausted amateur speakers. "He's about the same," he tells her, because that probably answers whatever she's asking. He would make an apologetic gesture to Carlos for talking about him to someone else this way, but Carlos hasn't noticed because he's starting to nod off. "Maybe after we get some — after _he_ gets some sleep. Some more sleep." Great, now his English fluency is trying to flee as well.

"Makes sense. Insofar as any of this does. Right, I won't keep you. Just … call sometime tomorrow if you get a chance. We need to figure out whether actually telling his boss what's really going on is a very good idea because she might be able to find someone who can fix it, or a very bad one because this sort of thing might start heads rolling. Non-metaphorically. Anyway. Good luck." She hangs up without waiting for a response.

Cecil shakes his head. Dr. Renegade makes him even more tired. He considers the dishes, decides he doesn't care, nudges Carlos awake, and stumbles to bed with him. He has no idea which one of them falls asleep first.


	3. Tuesday, February 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He is the very model of a Science major (General).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, towering thanks to shadydave.

Cecil wakes first the next morning when his cell phone rings. He answers sleepily, but in less than a minute he's cursing and racing to get dressed.

"Cecil?" Unlike nearly every other time Carlos has been startled from sleep, he sounds muzzy and unfocused. "What's wrong?"

"The sales meeting got moved ahead of the production meeting, and I _have_ to be there." The Shawns are exacting their revenge for his getting past them and opening the bunker, and right now, Cecil hates them. _Hates_ them with the fierce bloodlust of teeth and knives, because Carlos has sleep-tousled hair and is watching him with sleepy eyes through just-fumbled-on glasses, and Cecil just wants to sob at the unfairness of his life.

"Can I help?" Carlos asks.

"No, I just need to get there as fast as I —" Then Cecil curses again and calls back to beg the intern to give him a ride, because his car is _still_ at the radio station. Carlos rapidly scrubs a hand through his hair a few times to chase his sleepiness away and heads out of the bedroom, giving Cecil a quick kiss on his way past. By the time Cecil finishes that call, the blender is making unnerving noises from the kitchen.

The sounds, happily, have stopped by the time he's found his socks, which are all hiding behind the headboard. Carlos is pouring something from the blender's pitcher into a travel mug when Cecil reaches the kitchen and notices the dinner-encrusted dishes.

"Don't worry about the dishes," Carlos says, seeing his look. "I'll take care of them." He says it with none of his usual attitude towards dishes, which is that since he practically grew up in a restaurant kitchen he's already washed far too many in his life and he's more than happy to do more cooking in exchange for less dishwashing.

Cecil doesn't really like washing dishes either, but it _is_ only fair. But he really does have to go.

Carlos hands him the travel mug. "Sorry, I would have made you a breakfast burrito or something, but there aren't any tortillas. Or vegetables. Or eggs. That's kind of a cereal smoothie so you don't have to deal with dishes in the car, and also because there really wasn't enough orange milk, so I filled it out with frozen yogurt. I know it's not a great breakfast —"

Cecil kisses him. "You are _fantastic_."

The concern in Carlos's expression softens to pleasure. He gives Cecil a kiss in return, but just briefly, just a promise. "You have to go. Have a good day at work, _cariño_."

Cecil silently vows bloody revenge on the Shauns as he unsilently whimpers, gives Carlos one more quick kiss, and then runs out the door.

* * *

The sales meeting is brutal, though sadly only in the professional sense. The production meeting isn't much better, and then Cecil has to place several calls to get quotes for a developing story about the ketchup strike.

He's marking up the copy for an ad to record later when someone knocks on his open office door. "Cecil?"

Cecil glances up, his mind still half distracted with the question of whether to use a rising or falling pitch for the final growls, and is dazzled. Carlos is wearing the _entire_ science uniform, from glasses and gleaming lab coat to khakis to an unbuttoned button-down over a t-shirt with an incomprehensible science pun. There's a — Cecil swallows — a _pocket protector_ with a couple of permanent markers, a telescoping magnet wand, a pocket slide rule, and a few sticks of chalk and crayon. And his _hair_ —

Carlos's hair is the iconic ideal of perfection, so matchless it stands in refutation of frivolous speculations that perfection can exist only on some higher plane.

Then Carlos gives him a little wave, and the sensation of having his heart nearly seize and cease in adoration jolts Cecil out of staring. "Carlos! Here! You're. Why, what — I mean, always welcome, of course — you're doing … here?" Cecil feels himself starting to flush. He hasn't been this incoherent since those first flustered, flailing months after they met. Possibly not even then.

He wants to bury his face in his hands, but that would block the view.

And that fond, amused little smile is going to _kill him dead_. "Breathe," Carlos says, so Cecil does. It helps. Not enough. "Sorry if I'm interrupting. Am I? I can go —"

Cecil shakes his head frantically.

"Okay. I really don't want to distract you from your work. It's just that I tried to go to the labs, because I was supposed to check in, but Dr. Renegade wouldn't let me inside. She said I can't be cleared until I can recite either the full equation for the force-field around the labs or the entire post-incident protocol, including subclauses. Since I couldn't this time, I have to wait another twenty-four hours before I try again. She had Dr. Reliant get me home. But …"

He shuffles a bit, embarrassed.

"It's boring there right now, without you, so I thought, maybe I could just hang out here with you before your show? If I just stay out of the way and read this book Dr. Renegade told me to memorize?"

If Cecil hadn't been so rushed this morning, he might have realized Carlos was unlikely to remain at home without at least a discussion about it. "Of course you can stay, darling Carlos!" Not that there's really any such thing as "out of the way"; Cecil's office is little more than a desk and chair, an umbrella/weapon stand, a couple of shelves, and a few extra square feet allowing access to those items. "Just stay there and I will be _right back_."

He steals a chair from the break room and manages to wedge it into the corner. "Is that all right?"

"It's perfect," Carlos says. "Thank you." He settles in with his book, which doesn't _seem_ to have any dangerous teeth or claws and looks like it could be one of the texts for his current online course. Cecil isn't sure whether that means Dr. Renegade is cruelly denying Carlos a full break from working or kindly trying to ensure he doesn't fall behind and have too much to make up later.

She _is_ very efficient, so it could easily be both.

Having Carlos there with him is just as nice as Cecil could have hoped. He's no distraction at all — except when he steals a sip of Cecil's coffee and then pretends, insincerely, that he didn't — but they can share quick touches and glances when Cecil is between tasks or on the phone.

Carlos's cell phone seems to have gotten stuck asking _who are you? who, who, who, who?_ as an email notification for some reason, even though he normally has that notification turned off entirely. Carlos gets a _lot_ of email, and he keeps giving Cecil little worried glances at each new occurrence until Cecil assures him it's fine. It's not that different from the occasional racket made by the nosy owls in his studio.

They spend something like an hour that way before Carlos speaks. "Cecil? Sorry, but … I think I should go back home." He's pale and rubbing his head.

Then he flinches, wincing fiercely, though Cecil doesn't notice anything particular in his hasty threat assessment. No one and nothing has entered, the light levels are about the same, the conversations of interns down the hall and the grumblings of station management are no louder than usual, there are no suspicious creaks or shuffles of someone lying in wait, the current scent profile is stale coffee and lightly singed imaginary popcorn — situation normal.

Station management rumbles again, at a typical enough level. Cecil only even notices at first because he's trying to listen for anything out of the ordinary and they're a distraction from that, but Carlos looks like he's being stabbed in the head with a blunt and rusted knife that vibrates in sympathy with their emanations. His nose is starting to bleed.

Then Cecil remembers Shakeena's warning. Carlos is especially vulnerable to injury from _strong psychic influences_. Such as, for one wild example, _station management_. There is an impending possibility of Carlos's _brain liquefying_.

Carlos starts to take his glasses off. Cecil yelps and leaps over to prevent him. "No, Carlos, you can't!"

His rushed aim is a little off, and while he manages to push the glasses back in place, he jostles Carlos a bit in the process. Carlos rubs his previously uninjured cheek reproachfully, but he leaves the glasses alone. "Why not?"

"I'll explain later, I promise, but we have to go. Just keep your glasses on until we get home." He tugs Carlos up and out into the hall.

By the time they're halfway out of the building, Carlos is having to keep one hand on the wall to manage a straight line, even with Cecil's increasingly frantic guidance. By the time they reach the doors, Cecil is starting to think he may have to carry Carlos the rest of the way to the car.

Once he's gotten them both past the security measures and through the doorway, he's ready to do just that, but fortunately, getting out of the building seems to have helped. Carlos straightens and breathes a little easier, and after just a few steps he's able to walk steadily.

But then station management growls just as Cecil is digging for his car keys. Carlos stumbles and falls. In a flash — literally — Carlos is sprawled in a shallow hole, coughing.

"Carlos!" Cecil rushes to him. "Are you all right?"

Carlos nods, still coughing, and shakes streams of a powdery dust from the sleeves of his lab coat as Cecil helps him stand. "I tripped," he says around a last few coughs, cradling his ribs with one arm and his head with the other hand for a few seconds. Once his breathing steadies, he continues, "And … landed in this convenient falling-down hole. Huh. That's a really thoughtful feature for the station to install."

Cecil has never seen the hole before, and he thinks he would have noticed parking next to such a thing. And something about this is _familiar_ somehow — Carlos in danger, falling, a brief greenish light, a hole that might not have been there before, an impossibly fine dust cushioning the landing ….

He shakes his head. He can wonder later, but he has to get Carlos home now. He makes sure Carlos is safely buckled in and drives away from the radio station as fast as he can. He doesn't _technically_ have stop sign immunity, but officers often get too distracted to bother with enforcement if they happen to notice Carlos in the car.

Carlos falls again — though this time it's onto the couch — when Cecil closes their door. "It's okay," he says faintly, before Cecil can even ask. "It's just — that's _so much better_."

He really seems to mean it, so Cecil goes to get a damp washcloth. Once he gets Carlos mostly upright, he starts by easing the glasses off, folding them, and carefully placing them out of the way on the coffee table. He starts wiping the blood and dust from Carlos's face, making sure to be gentle along both magnificent cheekbones. "Did I hurt you?"

"No, just a bump," Carlos mumbles, closing his eyes. "I was just surprised. Why couldn't I take them off before?"

He looks much worse than he did this morning, but better than he did at the radio station, at least, and the nosebleed has definitely stopped. Cecil doesn't want to hurt him again with the truth, but Carlos really does need to know so this doesn't happen again.

"You remember when Shakeena worked on them?" Cecil starts warily, watching for a bad reaction. When Carlos makes a sound of agreement, he ventures further, "You remember that she's a … a magic practitioner?"

Carlos _mmmm_ s agreement again. "Mostly … wards and charms and readings, I think you said once? I don't really know much about it. I'm a scientist."

Cecil would think anyone but Carlos was mocking him at this point, but it _is_ Carlos — Cecil is mostly sure — and he's so obviously serious.

Cecil takes a deep breath. "When you were hurt …." He has to pause for a second, and Carlos opens his eyes long enough to locate Cecil's free hand and squeeze it, which gives him the courage to continue. "It wasn't just physical. There was a lot of psychic damage, too. You're — you're very vulnerable to psychic influences right now. So she put a spell on your glasses to help shield you. They just weren't enough against station management. But I think they still must have been helping at least a little, and if you took them off while you were still there —" He shivers.

"Oh. That makes sense." He waits for Cecil to finish wiping his face off before opening his eyes again. "Why didn't you just tell me before? I would have been more careful." He says it without accusation, just puzzlement and a tiny bit of hurt.

"I'm not really sure," Cecil admits. "It was a very confusing and stressful time. And you reacted so badly when Dr. Renegade brought up wizards —"

Carlos's face immediately contorts, not with pain but with a disgust so pronounced that any visual-surveillance officer would think Cecil had mentioned the _Apache Tracker_ instead of just wizards. "Can you blame me? Wizards are the _worst_. They're so awful. But magic is fine. I don't know much about it, because it's not science, but that's why you would want to go to a nice, reliable expert like your friend Shakeena. Not some flaky _wizard_ , ugh." Then he shakes his head to dismiss the concept and smiles. "Just like I would want to go to you if I needed an expert in radio broadcasting or journalism."

Cecil is … actually starting to get a little offended at all these insults to his boyfriend's job-slash-identity. Except the person insulting his boyfriend _is his boyfriend_. "You — you know I love you even though — even if you just happened to be a wizard, right?" He's not happy with how he started that, because it hasn't been "even though" for years. More than one, if not yet quite two.

Carlos makes an odd face. "That's … sweet, I guess. I mean, you're always sweet! But — well, it's just a good thing I'm a scientist."

Cecil has no idea what to say to that. He wants to push, but Carlos doesn't look like he could stand up to a mild breeze right now, and he's just so determined to refuse any consideration of wizardry even in general. Further discussion of the topic seems too dangerous.

Carlos's cell phone sounds yet again, this time asking _is there anybody in there?_ Carlos pulls it out and regards the screen in confusion. "It's been using songs for email all day," he says. "I thought songs were just supposed to be for calls. And maybe texts, I guess."

"It depends how you set it up," Cecil tells him patiently. "You just have to know the right rituals." Cell phones really aren't as hard to understand as Carlos makes them out to be, if you pay attention (and make sure to get the right accessories for the model, like compatible connection cables or a muzzle). In fairness, though, Carlos's phone is a specialized model designed by Dr. Renegade to hold up against magical influences as well as light combat, which means it's very complicated and often unpredictable.

"Maybe Dr. Renegade changed it, then," Carlos says. "She usually fixes it for me." He smiles a little. "She does like to tease me with Pink Floyd, ever since —"

He drops the phone to clutch at his head, doubling over sharply.

Cecil panics. Carlos is gasping and trying to curl into a ball, so Cecil just holds on to him with one arm and babbles nonsense that he hopes is soothing while he frantically texts Shakeena with his other hand. She doesn't respond right away, and she's probably at work so it may take _hours_ , and she made it sound like there probably wasn't much she could do anyway, so Cecil tosses his own phone aside and just holds on to Carlos.

He tries offering the glasses, and after about a minute Carlos manages to fumble them on, but he immediately snatches them back off with a groan of _ow, worse_. Cecil carefully sets the glasses safely out of the way and goes back to trying to reassure him with baseless promises.

When he pauses about a minute later to see if there's any change, Carlos whimpers. "Keep talking?" he pleads in a tiny voice.

Carlos always says he likes listening to Cecil. Cecil also happens to have the power to kill Carlos with his voice, which is exactly the opposite of useful in general and _especially_ right now … but as Carlos likes to say about his sword (and his guns, and his grenades, and his magic), the power to kill is often the power to protect as well.

Cecil thinks his voice may have helped Carlos before. He really hopes it can't hurt to try now.

So he talks. He brings his delivery down to the measured, calming pace he uses on the radio as he shares a few memorable quotes from the ketchup story and explains the difficulties of locating just the right quality of maddening hum in the sound library for a Snickers advertisement.

Carlos gradually uncurls in slow increments, until finally he's lying with his head in Cecil's lap, his hands lowered. His nose is bleeding again, though it seems to be slowing down. Cecil carefully wipes the blood away; somehow, none has gotten on his pants or, more importantly, the lab coat so far, and it would be nice to keep it that way, though that is _miles_ away from his top priority.

" _Dios_ ," Carlos whispers. "What was that?"

"I don't know," Cecil says. "A delayed reaction? We were just talking." Could something have happened to their wards? He needs some way to _check_. Shakeena should be able to help with that, at least. He'll text her in a minute. Maybe she can stop in on her way home.

"About … music. An old band Dr. Renegade quotes a lot for some reason." His tone would be the index sample of _incurious_ in a sound library. "Maybe they're the most scientifically accurate progressive rock band. I wouldn't know, I'm not a musicologist. Or maybe that's meteorology."

Cecil, distracted by wondering about the wards, doesn't realize what Carlos is doing until too late, but revisiting the same conversational topic doesn't seem to be having an ill effect this time. Then again, there's a strange flatness to Carlos's speculation, and Cecil is pretty sure Carlos had been starting a very different explanation the first time.

"It's not important," he tells Carlos. He has no idea whether he's lying.

They sit quietly for a while, Cecil stroking Carlos's hair and enjoying the simple pleasure of _not_ helplessly watching his boyfriend suffer. Then his stomach grumbles with hunger, since it's about lunchtime. His breakfast, while thoughtfully provided, was not _quite_ as filling as he might have hoped, and the vending machine in the break room has been in a bad mood lately, so all it's been offering is three slots of mints and one of poisonberry fruit roll-ups. He apologizes even as the corners of Carlos's mouth twitch upward in amusement.

"I think," Carlos says, hesitant, "I remember feeling like this once, and you made soup?"

Carlos doesn't usually like canned soup, which is the only kind Cecil really makes. It's nice of him to ask for it now, and Cecil welcomes the prospect of a specific task that might help. "I will _gladly_ do so again, dearest Carlos," Cecil offers. "… If we have any." He might, perhaps, have been letting the food shopping slide, because cooking for himself just makes the absence of Carlos more obvious. He's been having a lot of take-out lately.

He eases himself out from under Carlos and gets him settled more comfortably before heading to the kitchen. He's pleased to find there are a few cans of soup left. He considers making enough for both of them, but maybe he'd better save what they do have, since he doesn't know how long Carlos will be in this condition. Besides, Chicken Noodle Surprise can be difficult even in small amounts. He can always pick something up for himself later.

Once the soup is in a pan and heating up, he takes out a large pot lid and holds it as a shield, in case the surprise this time is a poor reaction to being heated. With his other hand he first texts a calmer follow-up to Shakeena and then texts Dr. Renegade. _Did you change the notifications on Carlos's phone?_

She answers a few minutes later, when he's putting the lid away again because the soup has settled on turning a particularly vivid shade of pink. _1 When 2 Why_

Cecil considers. _Sometime today, I think, and he's just confused by it, so I wanted to check if you meant anything specific_.

A few seconds later she calls instead of texting back.

"I actually meant _when and why would I do that_ , but I actually might, so it was a fair question," she says. "I _haven't_ , but I might. Sometimes he's just begging for an earworm. The musical version, I mean. Anyway. What's it doing?"

"Oh, it's just using song clips for notifications," Cecil says. "But he didn't even know it could do that. And one of the clips was Pink Floyd, and when he started to explain why you like to tease him about them, he got much worse again. I was just wondering if it might be important."

"I doubt it. That's just an old joke for the team, from when he was trying to track down some dark magic back in our first year — wait, do you think he was starting to remember his whole secret-superhero side?"

"Maybe? But if he was starting to remember something, I'm pretty sure he doesn't now. That's … that's not good, is it? If a potential memory caused him that much pain, it's much more likely he's under some kind of mental compulsion that he's really not in any condition to handle fighting against right now."

"Wild guess, yeah, probably not good. I guess that answers the question of whether we should push him. Would that only be a compulsion, though? I had thought maybe this was just all that psychic bruising suppressing the wizard centers of his brain temporarily. Does this rule that out? Or could this even just be how a wizard goes blue-screen, like the magical version of traumatic amnesia? Maybe something happened on that mission of his and he can't deal with it."

That's a depressing thought. "I don't know what that would look like, so … it _could_ be, I suppose."

"Or maybe — wait, what did you mean, 'got much worse _again_ '?"

Cecil tenses. As guilty as he feels, he really doesn't need her to blame him too. "I couldn't have known he would decide to come visit me at the radio station! Or that he would react so badly to station management!"

She's quiet for several seconds, but when she blows up, it's not at him. "Tesla _wept_ , that man is impossible. And I _know_ better, I _know_ he wanders off into trouble if you don't sit on him."

Cecil's defensive indignation briefly considers taking Carlos's side, but she's not wrong, so it throws up its hands and stalks off instead. "He doesn't _try_ to get hurt," he tells her, because he does want to be fair.

"No, he's just naturally talented at it. You're not still at the radio station, are you?"

The soup is starting to bubble threateningly, so Cecil turns off the heat. "No, I brought him home. I think he's okay now, but he got worse again while we were here, just talking about his phone. I thought he was supposed to be safe here." He tests the soup a few times, partly to quiet his stomach's petitioning but mostly to make sure it's actually edible.

"And of course the closest thing we have to a resident expert is the one who's out of commission. You haven't even done your show yet, have you? We'll free someone up to come over and keep an eye him so you don't have to spend the whole time wondering if he's turning into a puddle of goo. I mean, it's not like we can stop it, but at least it wouldn't be a mystery."

"Thank you," Cecil says, touched.

" _De nada_ ," she says, and he manages to summon the ghost of a smile. "You said he's not in any condition to fight against whatever this is. So we're talking about two separate things — that psychic concussion _plus_ an Obliviate spell or a neuralizer or something, right? I take it that's a bad combination."

"Yes. Well, probably. If his psyche is that badly bruised, it probably can't take the pressure of a compulsion enforcing some obscure and insidious objective."

"How long does that sort of bruising take to clear up?"

"I'm not sure — I think it depends. At least a few days. Probably not a year."

"Well, that doesn't help. So here's the thing. Shakeena is fine, but she and her circle of pals are all supposed to be pretty minor talents, and this is apparently a lot bigger than that. We _need_ more information, and as far as I know, the only way to get that is to consult the wizards he works with."

"Didn't you just talk to his captain yesterday?"

"Yeah, and she's pretty cool, but I didn't bring this up yet because I don't trust the _organization_."

"Naturally. They're a shadowy, secretive cabal dedicated to mysterious and possibly nefarious goals."

"Cecil, you say that about _FedEx_."

"Yes, and?"

"Well, you're not wrong, at least about this Council thing. Even setting aside their little Hydra problem, it sounds like some of the ones in charge are the type to decapitate first and ask questions never. And — look, you say this wasn't you, but to an outsider … it would probably look like you were at least involved. Meanwhile, Kate is working herself up wondering if she accidentally _wished_ you guys well when they were talking about relationship stuff and it backfired — it's unlikely, because she's got a pretty good handle on this place, but it's easy to start questioning your own memory about something like that."

"Memory is an unreliable witness and a recidivist perjurer," Cecil agrees. Reassured that the soup seems to be safe, he fills a mug with most of the remainder, but he lingers in the kitchen rather than continuing the conversation where Carlos might be hurt by overhearing the wrong thing.

"The criminal justice reformers on campus agree with you there. So do we really want to bring the secret wizard lodge in on this and risk having them decide to just take out Kate, or you, or some random schmuck who made an innocent mistake in this crazycakes town, without asking enough questions? Or for all we know, this could be what makes them decide to just cut their losses and terminate all of Night Vale. And the way Carlos is now, he wouldn't even be able to try to stop them."

Cecil likes his head where it is, and he's fond of the scientists and his hometown. And as hard as he's been working to accept wizards individually (particularly one individual wizard), his original suspicions of them as a general class were not entirely unfounded.

He's not even sure _Carlos_ actually trusts his own clandestine organization right now. Carlos tries to be careful about not breaking whatever oaths of secrecy he's made, but it's plain he suspects traitors in the ranks. Cecil can't know their purpose, but if they haven't bothered to win Carlos over to their cause, then they're clearly unsavory and unsuitable types who should not be alerted that Carlos is not at the top of his magical game.

"That would not be my first choice," Cecil admits.

"Mine either. I mean, I've got way too much research tied up in this place. So maybe we wait a few days, at least, and see if he shakes it off."

"Wait and see," Cecil confirms. "At least with the Council, but they're not our only option. There are specific wizards Carlos would probably trust. We could try them."

"Do you know how to contact any of them? And for that matter, should _we_ trust them?" She sounds skeptical.

"One is his _bisabuela_. I'm sure she would act in his best interests."

"So you think she's more likely to give us all a fair hearing than someone else from the Council would be? I'm just asking because a lot of people get _less_ rational or reasonable if they think a family member is in danger," she points out. "Remember we don't actually have a wizard already on our side right now."

That's worth considering. Cecil did come away from meeting Wizard Solares with a healthy fear of getting on her bad side, and Carlos is not just her some-degree-of-grandson but also her personal apprentice. "It's a risk," he admits, "but I can try to ask her some general questions, at least. She probably can't destroy us over the phone. And you've met his friend Harry. Harry wasn't so bad, as dangerous wizards go, and Mouse was _so cute_."

"… True. I'd want to take out a few more insurance policies if he's coming to town, but he'd probably work. You have a number for him?"

"He left a contact number."

"Does it actually work?"

"Hmmm. Well, if it doesn't, Shakeena might know a way to reach him. And there's always … _the bus garage_."

"Cool. Okay, give me about ten minutes to find someone so you can get back to work. Go pet your boy some more for now."

Cecil can't help smiling genuinely at that as he heads back to the den with the soup to obey. Carlos is dozing but wakes readily. He sits up with assistance, but he doesn't seem comfortable until he's gotten Cecil to sit down so he can slump against him.

Cecil manages to angle his supporting arm so he can stroke a small section of Carlos's hair. Carlos closes his eyes in pleasure, although possibly also to avoid looking at the soup, and sips the soup slowly.

"Dr. Renegade says hi," Cecil says. It's not literally accurate, but it's true enough. "One of the scientists is going to come stay with you for the afternoon."

Carlos sighs. "I know you wouldn't want me to be here alone, after what just happened. And I know you can't stay. I just feel … well, silly, needing supervision. I'm sorry this is all so much trouble."

Carlos must feel _awful_ to give in without even a token protest. Cecil gentles his tone for the words he'd already planned. "They worry about you too, you know. We all want to be sure you're okay."

"I know. I do appreciate it. I probably don't say that enough."

Cecil isn't sure what to say to that. Carlos doesn't always communicate in _words_ particularly clearly, but he does try, and he shows he cares in a variety of ways.

Carlos finishes most of the soup, but he's getting drowsy, and he shakes his head when Cecil asks if he wants more, so Cecil moves the mug to the coffee table and then serves as a pillow until he has to get up to answer the door.

This time it's Dr. Renaissance. Carlos sits up straighter, stifling a yawn, though Dr. Renaissance is as affable as ever. Once he's greeted them both, he tells Carlos, "I'll entertain myself with paperwork while you're resting, but if there's anything you need, don't hesitate to tell me. I'm sure I would appreciate interruptions."

Carlos nods an awkward agreement but then looks back to Cecil. "I don't want to sleep. I might miss your show."

"I think you need the rest more," Cecil points out, because the yawn Carlos is fighting is clearly winning.

"If you sleep now, you'll have a better chance of staying awake for the entire show later," Dr. Renaissance points out.

"I guess," Carlos mutters, the closest he's been to sullen since he woke in the science bunker. It's not actually all that close, but Cecil is relieved to see even that much of a hint of assertiveness. Carlos looks to Cecil once more and adds, "Before you go, can I try my glasses again?"

Cecil frowns with worry. "Didn't you say they hurt?"

"Yeah, but that was right in the middle of … whatever that was, and they were helping before. And … it hurt without them when you opened the door," he admits.

"Oh, Carlos, why didn't you tell me?"

"I am telling you," Carlos points out, which is fair. "It wasn't _much_ , and it wasn't long, and you needed to open the door. But you'll have to open it again to leave, and if my glasses can help …."

"If you're _sure_." Cecil hovers nervously, but Carlos is careful putting the glasses back on, and he seems just as relieved as Cecil feels once they're settled with no ill effects.

Carlos then reaches out and draws Cecil in for a quick kiss. "Have a good show, _amorcito_."

"And you try to get some rest," Cecil says. Carlos rolls his eyes a little but agrees. Cecil thanks Dr. Renaissance, gives Carlos one last worried look, steps through the doorway as quickly as he can manage, and heads back to work.

He tries the number Harry left a few times as he walks to his car, but even though the line seems to connect after a couple of rings and it sounds like someone is trying to answer, the calls keep dropping before whoever it is can manage to speak even a full syllable.

So that's a bust.

Cecil continues on to work, stopping at the deli to grab a sandwich on the way. He interviews the counter staff about the ketchup strike while he's there, to make it a working lunch, and they express concern that relish may be next, which is a useful update. In the end he has to cut the interview a bit short, though, when Shakeena calls.

She wants a full accounting of what happened, so once he's back inside his car — because the man sitting at the table by the window in the deli and marking down everything on his clipboard probably doesn't yet know Carlos is a wizard, and Cecil would like to keep it that way — he explains in detail.

She's surprised the glasses were effective as long as they were in close proximity to station management. "Still got it," she says. She also seems to recognize the falling-down hole when Cecil describes it. "One second you've got perfectly normal, intact ground, and the next, a hole full of nearly frictionless dust, right? I've seen him do that before. Interesting." She lapses into a thoughtful silence.

"Interesting in general, or in some specific way?" Cecil prompts finally. He's nearly to the radio station.

"Specific. That's definitely him doing magic."

"But I thought you said he couldn't do magic if he didn't believe he was a wizard."

"That's mostly true. But instinct — magic requires intent, which takes time, but most practitioners have one or two spells they turn to instinctively. Something they don't have to think about — something they learned very early or very well and can do when they don't have the time or focus for anything else. That dust spell — he's very quick with that one, especially when he's looking at a hard landing, and honestly, I hope for his sake it's instinct."

"Because it's a good sign for his magic coming back?"

"Well, yeah, that too, but I was more thinking that I don't know many cases when I'd rather _breathe_ the ground than land on it. It might save you some horrific, bone-shattering injuries, sure, but there are ways to do that without getting yourself a chest full of powderized dirt. Still, we knew his physical reflexes were still good, and now it looks like his magical ones are, too. That's not terrible."

Cecil parks and shuts off his car, but before he gets out, he explains the conversation he had with Dr. Renegade. Shakeena agrees with their conclusions about contacting the Council, having a similarly poor opinion of them in general. "We wouldn't want to stir anything up while he's in this condition anyway," she says. "He's actually been pretty good at keeping them out of our business. No point risking a change in that if we don't have to."

"I was thinking we could try his friend Harry, though," Cecil says.

"Harry — the _Winter Knight_?"

"He helped Carlos before," Cecil points out. "And joined Tamika's book club. And he didn't blow up our apartment even a little."

"He was useful," Shakeena admits.

"Maybe he'd be willing to come take a look, or knows someone who can help. He left a number, but I can't get through. So … do you think you could reach him through your network?"

There's an appalled silence.

"Shakeena, please?" It's a lot to ask, Cecil knows — working with outsiders always is — but this is for _Carlos_.

"I don't know, honey. No one in the Paranet is going to be in a rush to risk getting Winter's attention by trying to track him down. And he helped us out before, but we all breathed a lot easier when he left."

Cecil sighs. "Why do wizards have to be so _complicated_? I guess I'll just have to see if I can get a message to him."

"'Get a message' — I _know_ you're not talking about making a deal with anyone at the bus company."

Cecil rolls his eyes. "The King City line returns later this afternoon. I'm sure the driver would be perfectly reasonable —"

"The ban on any bargains, transactions, or arrangements outside a standard transportation ticket is there for a good reason and you know it. You may not see the cost now, but you'll pay far more than you expect. The only thing involving any of the fae in a search for the Winter Knight would do is take a bad situation and make it a bad situation _plus faeries_."

Cecil growls in frustration. "Fine. I'll figure something else out. Maybe there'll be something on eBay. Can you check on our wards?"

"I'll stop by after your show," she offers. "I can at least take a quick look, see if we need to schedule any patching."

He thanks her and they end the call. Cecil grabs his sandwich and heads back into the radio station, thinking dark thoughts about stubborn wizards who don't have the courtesy to be easily reachable. Carlos might not always be immediately available every moment Cecil wants him, but at least _he_ tries.

* * *

After his show, Cecil picks up dinner on the way home. Carlos is awake and clearly proud of that fact. Dr. Renaissance reports no problems — and no changes — but he sounds troubled. Concerned, Cecil tries to get more information as he sees Dr. Renaissance to the door while Carlos is distracted by the bags of take-out.

"He just seems … different," Dr. Renaissance says. "It's not as though he's not usually polite or respectful, but today was he was more … intense … about it. I'm not sure how to explain."

Cecil thinks he understands, despite the vagueness. He thanks Dr. Renaissance, bids him a good night, and heads back to Carlos.

Carlos is a little disappointed at not getting a chance to cook, but he admits there really isn't much of anything for him to cook in the first place. He's pleasantly surprised Cecil remembered the noodles he likes, to a degree that almost — but not quite — crosses the line from _gratifying_ to _insulting_.

Cecil goes to the kitchen to get real utensils, because the glossy photographs of chopsticks in the take-out kit aren't all that practical. The dirty soup pot and mug are conspicuously not awaiting him. "I would have washed the dishes," he says when he gets back to the den.

"That's okay," Carlos says. "You cooked, so that means it was my turn to wash."

Cecil doesn't think that should apply when one of them is recovering, and he's starting to feel a little guilty about not handling what is almost always his chore. But it's not worth an argument, especially if winning means he'll have to wash more dishes, so he lets it go.

As they're sorting through the bags of food, Carlos notices his textbook under one of the bags — Cecil found it cowering under his desk when he got back to work and brought it home. Carlos is happy to have it back, but he barely glances at it before setting it aside in favor of asking Cecil about his day.

There's really not much to tell, since Carlos was with him for much of it and heard the show, but Carlos is enthusiastic for those few details anyway.

Shakeena stops by when they're about halfway done eating. She determines the wards are fine and even the glasses, despite everything, are still fine as well. She's less impressed at Carlos's psychic condition and warns him to stay away from station management; he agrees readily.

He asks a few general questions about the wards, barely more than Cecil could have answered, but he shows no interest in any degree of detail. Other than that utterly uncharacteristic lack of curiosity, he's perfectly charming and grateful to Shakeena the entire time, but that just seems to make her uneasy, and she doesn't stay long.

While Carlos did nothing to encourage her quick departure, he seems pleased to be alone with Cecil again. "Want to watch a movie?" he suggests, suggestively.

They actually get all the way to the end of _Monte Walsh_.

Cecil sighs as the end credits play out. He's not uncomfortable, even though he's on the bottom of their tangle, and it's not that he thinks Carlos wasn't really into it, even if Carlos did doze off mid-nuzzle. It's just that he's used to half-listening for the playback to start distorting or running backwards or just shutting down completely, and the complete _lack_ of electronic interference in what was otherwise a nice make-out session leaves him feeling off-balance and unsettled.

Carlos has gotten _much_ better at controlling his effects on their electronics. Numerous experiments have convinced Cecil that the degree of electrical disruption is not strongly correlated to interest or performance.

But it bothers him now.

He untangles an arm to turn off the television with the remote and sighs again, trying to work out the best way to get Carlos to bed. He manages to ease himself out from under Carlos, getting only a mumble in reaction, so he puts away the rest of the food and washes the utensils.

While he's in the kitchen, Carlos's sister Dani calls, in response to his vague private message on Facebook. Cecil hates that he can't explain properly, but Carlos has the right to decide whether to share his condition with his sister or hide it from her, as soon as someone figures out what that condition even _is_. Cecil also wants to be careful how he poses the situation to Wizard Solares, which means he has to be careful how much he tells Dani first anyway. He tries to explain that he needs to speak to Wizard Solares because he has a wizard-related question he can't ask Carlos. Not that he has a good reason _why_ he can't —

"He's under communications blackout, huh?" she asks sympathetically, to Cecil's relief. "Well, I don't give out people's phone numbers without their permission, but I can ask her to call you when she gets back, if you want."

"Back?" Cecil hadn't thought Wizard Solares would be unavailable.

"Things have been busy," Dani says, just as vague as Cecil was. "As I'm sure you know. I don't know much more than that, but it probably won't be more than a few days. So should I give her your number when I do see her?"

Sadly, this is the best lead on a wizard he's gotten all day. "Yes. Thank you. Actually, would you have a current number for Harry Dresden? Maybe I could ask him." Cecil tried the number he has again during the weather, but it still didn't work.

Unfortunately, she doesn't have a different number for Cecil to try. Once he's thanked her and said goodbye, Cecil goes back out to the den and again considers how to get Carlos to bed. Waking him up to send him to bed seems counterproductive; it might encourage him to wake up more fully. Cecil doesn't want to risk that, since rest is supposed to help Carlos recover, so he'll just have to get Carlos to bed another way.

Carlos's phone is on the coffee table. It's unlikely Carlos will need it, but Cecil doesn't want to deal with the likely annoyances if he's wrong. He slips the phone into his pocket so he can leave it on the nightstand once he gets Carlos to bed. Then he carefully scoops Carlos up and heads for the bedroom.

Carlos makes a questioning sound.

"It's okay, just sleep," Cecil says softly, tightening his hold a bit in case Carlos tries to squirm free, because he doesn't want to end up dropping him.

Instead Carlos just responds with, "'kay," and snuggles his head more comfortably against Cecil's shoulder. It's a good thing Cecil tightened his grip, because otherwise he might have dropped Carlos after all, just from surprise at the lack of complaints. Carlos isn't a fan of being carried.

Carlos doesn't wake as Cecil settles him on the bed and then awkwardly eases off the lab coat and button-down while holding him up. He even manages to remain asleep through the removal of his khakis and the shuffling required to get the covers more over than under him, though he does smile a little when Cecil brushes his hair back and kisses him gently.

He looks so peaceful that Cecil finds himself wondering if it's possible he's been overreacting. Yes, Carlos did get hurt _again_ today, but the encounter with station management is Cecil's fault for not warning him, and Carlos's reaction to that wasn't defiance or waving off his injury but determination to be more careful.

Which is shockingly unusual, yes, but it's also _a good thing_.

Carlos is usually awful at taking care of himself when he's hurt, but he's actually being good this time and _listening_ when he's told to rest. As disconcerting as his agreeable compliance may be — not just with Cecil, but with the senior scientists and even Shakeena as well — it means he's following their advice and recommendations. He's letting them _help_ him with his recovery.

And Carlos was hurt again by a reminder of his wizardry, but Shakeena says his magic is still there, just bound up somehow. Maybe Dr. Renegade is right that his magical control is bruised. Maybe reminders hurt him simply because pressing on a bruise hurts.

Maybe Carlos really does just need time.

Cecil does still want to find someone who knows enough about mental magic to determine the full truth and scope of whatever has happened to Carlos, if such a person or being exists. That's turning out to be more complicated than he expected, but maybe … maybe that delay isn't a complete disaster.

Cecil takes Carlos's phone from his pocket and leaves it on the nightstand. The phone has been quiet all evening, and Cecil has been assuming that Dr. Renaissance did something to fix it, but just as he's setting it down, it sounds another notification, asking _who is he and what is he to you?_

It's not loud enough to wake Carlos on its own, so Cecil ignores it and turns off the lights.


	4. Wednesday, February 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darkest before the dawn. ( _Is_ that the dawn?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, so sorry this chapter has taken so long. An important plot development turned out to be built atop a fundamental misconception, and foundation work is always complicated.
> 
> I must also apologize in advance that the next chapter will likely be slow to arrive as well, because shadydave's availability is decreasing. The chapter _is_ already written, but it's currently the longest chapter ... and I've already been yellow-carded on the second scene. I will try to get that chapter posted as soon as I can, but shadydave's services have been an enormous gift; this story is profoundly better than the draft I initially intended to post. I don't want that gift to be regretted any more than it may already be, so please have patience with us. :/
> 
> In the meantime, if anyone has seen the WtNV touring show "Ghost Stories" and wants to talk about it, feel free to drop by the discussion post at the [Dog Park](http://nightvale-dogpark.dreamwidth.org/65692.html).
> 
> * * *

The next morning is much calmer, because Cecil doesn't have to go in until early afternoon. He's able to enjoy watching Carlos sleep for a bit before kissing him awake just enough to let him know he's going out to pick something up for breakfast. Carlos greets that news with a sleepy smile and contentedly burrows back under the covers.

Cecil drives the extra few blocks to the cafe that makes the muffins Carlos likes, even though their machine-ground coffee is inferior to properly hammer-ground blends. He's glad he went to the extra effort when Carlos shuffles into the kitchen, hair still rumpled and glasses a little crooked, and beams at the breakfast laid out on the table.

Once they've kissed a proper good morning, Cecil reaches over to straighten the glasses. Then an unhappy thought strikes him. "Did it hurt you when I left and came back?"

Carlos shakes his head. "It didn't hurt." He scrunches his face up charmingly in consideration. "I felt it, I guess? I definitely noticed. But it didn't actually hurt." He presses the glasses more firmly into place, unnecessarily. "Better safe, though."

They sit to eat. Carlos is even more pleased to learn of Cecil's free morning. "So you can stay until lunch?" he asks. "Or did you have errands?"

Cecil sighs. "I _should_ go food shopping. I'm sorry I let it get this bad."

"You've been busy," Carlos says. "And I usually do most of the shopping, since I know what I'll need for cooking. You shouldn't have to try to figure that out. It's my fault — I shouldn't have been away so much. At …." He rubs his forehead. "Um. Those, um, science conferences. Oh!" His growing discomfort clears away with the light of sudden realization. "Those calls the other day. They were probably from a conference organizer."

"They … were?" Cecil is reasonably confident they weren't, since Carlos hasn't actually been at any science conferences. Possibly ever. Unless they're suddenly using "conferences" as code for "wizard missions" again, and "conference organizer" really means "secret wizard society's military commander", in which case Carlos is actually right after all. But it seems unlikely he's remembering that and yet being obscure about it.

"Probably," Carlos says again, but his tone conveys _definitely_. "I can't think of anyone else who would call me and not already have a real name programmed in my phone, or a clear caller ID." He chews a bit of muffin thoughtfully, carefully swallowing before he continues. "I should have answered so I could turn them down."

Cecil is glad he did no such thing, because he can't imagine that the commanders of secret cabals encourage their highly-trained and deadly cloaked operatives to turn down missions. "Don't be hasty," he warns.

"Why not?" Carlos asks. "It doesn't make sense for me to go to conferences anyway. I study science. I'm here in Night Vale because it's so scientifically interesting. So why would I leave it to go to some conference about something else? And that whole year when I couldn't get back — what if that happened again? I would _never_ want to put us through that a second time."

"You said that was just a property of — of the old oak doors." Of the unknown mystical forces used to activate the oak doors as dimensional portals, actually, but the scientist Carlos currently thinks he is probably wouldn't phrase it that way.

"That was consistent with the observed results at that time, yes, but for verification we'd have to repeat the experiment or run variation trials."

Cecil squirms a little. Carlos doesn't seem to be trying to turn him on at the moment, but that much scientific vocabulary makes it hard to — makes it _difficult_ to focus.

Heedless, Carlos continues, "And what if one of the 'conference' variation trials locks me out?" He shakes his head firmly. "Falsification is valuable in general, but not if success would mean I wouldn't be able to get back to you. I guess I wouldn't get to enjoy reuniting with you if we never spent _any_ time apart, but I can't think of any reason why I would ever accept anything _forcing_ us apart, even for however long a conference is. No, I think it's best if I just stay in Night Vale." He grins. "I can't get locked out if I never leave, right?"

Cecil is starting to understand why Dr. Renegade and Shakeena both thought Cecil had made a wish to cause all this. Even Carlos's _phone_ seems to be chiming in on that theory, choosing this moment to interject _he's everything you want_ from its vantage point on the table next to Cecil's far-better-behaved phone.

And Cecil is dismayed to realize he can't really deny that.

"What about your family?" Cecil asks, troubled. Carlos has a great family, and he gets really down when he goes too long without seeing them.

"Well, maybe they could visit us here," Carlos says with a careless shrug.

The last time that suggestion was made, Carlos greeted it with several minutes of near-hysterical laughter followed by a brief but intense panic attack, so Cecil has his doubts about its feasibility.

"And besides, we can talk on the phone or over the computer. It'll be fine." Carlos looks as satisfied with his plan as Khoshekh looked when he was finally restored to his rightful place.

Cecil has never really been into things like "maintaining order" or "saving the world" himself, but he knows and respects how important they are to Carlos. Seeing Carlos acting this way, dismissing his own (poorly remembered) interests and family so callously, is like trying to capture him in a watercolor portrait: the result may be colorful and skillfully rendered, even intriguing, but it's no substitute for having the real Carlos — all of him — actually present. "Carlos, don't — please don't make a decision about this right now. You're still recovering. You should … make sure you know _all_ the consequences it would have on — on your career."

Carlos looks puzzled. "I thought you'd want me to stay."

"I do!" Cecil says automatically. He can't deny it. "I mean, I love having you here. But your job and your life are important, too. And you haven't been locked out again, all the times you've left since. Even if you _did_ get locked out again, we'd figure something out. I could join you, just like I planned to do before, remember? _If_ you couldn't get back in, which you probably don't even have to worry about anymore. Just … just promise me you won't make a huge decision like this without taking the time to consider _all_ the variables? Please?"

Carlos squeezes Cecil's hand. "If it's so important to you, then I promise I'll wait. And I'll talk it over with you before I make any commitments. Or break them, I guess. Okay?"

Something about that doesn't feel quite right, but Cecil is too relieved at the general outcome to worry about specifics at the moment. "Thank you, dear Carlos."

"I should be thanking you for being so thoughtful and selfless," Carlos answers. "I keep forgetting that I … well, keep forgetting things. I'm lucky you're here to look out for me. Even though that puts you in the position of having to encourage me to — to _abandon_ you for days on end. I just wish —"

Alarmed, Cecil reaches over and covers Carlos's mouth with his hand, but Carlos has already stopped talking. He reaches up and takes Cecil's wrist gently, kissing the palm that's pressed against his lips before tugging Cecil's hand away.

"There's a … a wish restriction, right?" he says, brow furrowed in concentration. "It's okay, I remembered that in time. But thank you again, for making sure I didn't violate it. You're always protecting me like that, and I …."

He sighs.

"I'm not happy I got hurt or anything like that. That headache was …." He winces even at the memory. "Unpleasant, and I miss doing science, and it's frustrating that it's so hard to remember things clearly. And I know this has all been very upsetting for you. But … I feel like it's made me slow down and really pay attention to you. To _us_. I think — I don't know for sure because there's so much I can't _remember_ , but the evidence suggests that my priorities have been all out of order. That I've been taking you for granted. Being away from you so much, neglecting the shopping — it's obvious I need to make some changes. No rash decisions, I promise, and I'll definitely talk everything over with you, but at least I see there's a problem now. I'm just sorry we had to go through all this to make me understand."

Cecil knows he should say something, but the right response escapes him. They _have_ been having problems, but putting all the blame for them on Carlos's priorities is unfair. Carlos is far too willing to take all the blame, to abandon his career and family, to make Cecil the center of his world.

To offer Cecil everything he's ever selfishly wished for, pre-restriction. But he _couldn't_ have caused this … right?

The growing silence is abruptly broken by the declaration _anything you want, you got it_.

Carlos glances over at his phone, looking puzzled but faintly pleased, before returning his attention to Cecil. "Anyway, for now, don't worry about the food shopping. I should be fine soon, and I can take care of it then."

Cecil firmly shoves down his apprehension. Yes, Carlos's behavior is growing suspiciously similar to what it might have been if Cecil _had_ made a wish. Yes, audio surveillance can't catch every form of wish. Yes, magical screening wouldn't necessarily detect a brief but potentially disastrous _proximity_ to a monkey's paw. But as the old saying goes, "If it looks like a duck, and it quacks like a duck … you should not be so quick to jump to conclusions."

Even if those conclusions are less a jump away than a large step. Large-ish. Well … no. No, Cecil is not going to worry about this right now. He's going to focus on — on whatever they're actually talking about right now. Shopping! Yes, they're talking about shopping. Which is usually one of Carlos's responsibilities, so it's _perfectly normal_ for him to be offering to handle it soon.

But _soon_ doesn't get them food _now_. "We're out of almost _everything_. I can at least pick up the basics." Cecil doesn't have much enthusiasm for the prospect; Carlos took over most of their shopping for a reason. Okay, multiple reasons, primarily his pickiness about produce and his unusually strong ability to resist vast-bulk discounts. But they really need at least some food in the house and Cecil can certainly manage.

"It's inefficient to make two trips," Carlos points out. "We've been doing okay so far. We can just keep having take-out for another day or two."

"Are you sure?" Carlos is a little bit of a food snob, much as Michelle Nguyen is a little bit of a trend snob. He accepts the necessity and convenience of take-out, but he usually gets tired of it quickly and his standards are _very_ high. "We're running out of places to order from."

"Well, that's not — there are plenty of places we haven't had recently," Carlos says. "Big Rico's. Arby's. Gino's — well, maybe they don't have a take-out menu, but Applebee's. Jerry's Tacos —"

Cecil nearly sprays him with mediocre coffee.

"Oh, that's right, you really like them," Carlos says, somehow misinterpreting startled shock as interest. "We could have that for dinner tonight. That's one meal down right there."

Cecil wipes his mouth distractedly, staring at Carlos. "You _hate_ Jerry's Tacos." Even that is an understatement. Carlos detests Jerry's Tacos. He _loathes_ Jerry's Tacos. He has lamented that his pesky ethics, in combination with his respect for what he considers Cecil's occasional need for and right to terrible junk food, won't allow him to "accidentally" disintegrate Jerry's Tacos. And then fall backwards into the resulting dust to make dust-Erikas.

"They're not that bad," Carlos says. He doesn't even look like he has to force the words out. "I mean, I really do think I make the same dishes better, and you deserve to have the best food, but you deserve to take it easy, too. It's just one meal. I'm sure it'll be fine." He smiles with easy confidence.

Carlos's phone notes the arrival of yet another email by crooning _imaginary lovers never disagree_.

Cecil continues to stare at him, but he gradually realizes that Carlos is entirely sincere.

"No," Cecil says slowly. "I'll just go food shopping."

"You don't have to, _cielo_ ," Carlos protests. "It's really not that important, and you've been working so hard lately —"

"Just make a shopping list, please? A full one, and I'll pick up what I can. While you do that, I'll … get ready."

Carlos looks unhappy, but he says, "Okay," and goes to get a notepad and a marker.

Cecil heads to the bathroom to take a quick shower. He uses the brief window of privacy to get a bit of hyperventilation out of his system, because he doesn't know if Carlos is getting worse or if he's been this badly not-himself the entire time.

Forgetting he's a wizard is one thing. The topic of Jerry's Tacos is entirely another.

Once he's managed to calm down, he dresses and goes back out to the kitchen, where Carlos is hard at work on his list. Carlos greets him happily but then grows worried as he goes back and counts the number of pages he's already filled. "Maybe … maybe I could go with you?"

"It's not —" Cecil starts to say, but the tentative way Carlos spoke makes him uneasy, so he rewords. "Do you think it's safe?"

"I'm much better today," Carlos points out. "It didn't hurt when you opened the — when you _parted the wards_ ," he corrects carefully, using a scientific precision for the term he "learned" from Shakeena last night as if it's still unfamiliar. "Even though I didn't have my glasses on, so they'll be extra protection. I don't _think_ there are any malign influences at the Ralphs, and you'd be there to keep an eye on me. We could try."

Cecil wants to argue, because he wants to wrap Carlos up and keep him safe, but the particular way Carlos is waiting for an answer … Cecil is starting to feel sick, and he can't blame it on breakfast. "You — you know you don't need my _permission_ , right?" he asks with dismay, because that's not their relationship, at _all_.

"I don't want to upset you by getting hurt," Carlos says reasonably. "And you would get stuck looking after me if I did, so it affects you, so you should have a say." He sounds so, so reasonable as he offers up a degree of his autonomy that Cecil _does not want_.

Cecil takes a minute to put his response together very carefully. "If you know the risks and you want to come anyway, then I want you to come. If you don't, then I don't." He hopes that's the right answer. He does want to be a highly ranked _consideration_ as Carlos makes his own decisions, but he doesn't want to be the only factor Carlos accounts for, or even the primary one.

He was wrong last night. He hadn't been overreacting _at all_.

What has his life come to, that Carlos is _right here_ and yet Cecil is still desperate for a wizard to return his calls? That seeking a dangerous and likely painful truth seems preferable to ignorance?

And all the ways Carlos is different — they _all_ come back to what Cecil wants, or once wanted, or conceivably could want in theory, even if he doesn't actually want them in practice. Walking and even quacking are one thing, but if it _bites_ like a duck just after uttering the vast and terrible doom-quack of Hnraaq, the evil duck-god ….

Carlos grins, apparently unaware of Cecil's growing dread. "Cool." He stands and gives Cecil a quick kiss, then hands him the small sheaf of paper. "Here, you should add anything you want that I missed while I get ready."

Cecil waits for him to leave the kitchen before sitting down and resting his head on the table. This situation is going very wrong and he doesn't know how to make it stop.

 _Wrapped around your finger_ , Carlos's phone sneers.

"Oh, shut up," Cecil mutters. He has enough to deal with as it is. He doesn't need unfairly accusatory and suspiciously on-point commentary from mad-science-driven electronics on top of everything else.

* * *

Carlos is careful as he leaves their apartment, but he has no problems, and they get to the store just fine. The produce section takes forever, but Cecil doesn't comment, because he doesn't want Carlos to abandon his standards and start throwing random vegetables in their cart just to try to please Cecil.

Eight people ask to touch Carlos's hair. He politely declines each time.

Carlos's phone has decided to proclaim _she loves a puppet_ at frequent intervals throughout the produce section. Cecil twitches. He can forgive the misgendering, since he doesn't know if phones can even perceive human gender, but calling Carlos a puppet is out of line. Acknowledging the phone's commentary even once was clearly a mistake, though. He bites his tongue.

Once they're finally done with produce, they then go through each aisle, because they really do need nearly everything. The condiment aisle is a challenge, but Cecil fashions shields from cling-wrap and celery — to Carlos's rather overdone admiration — and they get through unscathed. Though part of their success may be because even ketchup respects the sanctity of the pristine white lab coat.

Carlos's phone really seems to like its latest musical selection, going deeper into the lyrics for _his porch light's on but no one's home_. Cecil finishes wiping a stray smear of ketchup from his knuckles and shoves his handkerchief in his pocket but says nothing. This situation isn't Cecil's fault, and it's certainly not Carlos's fault, and there's nothing they can do right now but wait and hope it gets better.

Their cart is groaning by the time they reach frozen foods. They don't spend long there, fortunately, but they do both like frozen yogurt, so they take a little time choosing flavors, which gives a ninth person a chance to ask to touch Carlos's hair. He politely declines again and the person wanders away, dejected.

 _Got no soul, only a haircut_ —

Cecil whirls. "I will _flush you_ ," he snarls.

Carlos pulls the phone from his pocket and offers it to Cecil. "Do you want to try to turn it off?" he asks anxiously. "I'm sorry it's bothering you. I don't know what's wrong with it. I tried, but it won't stay off."

Cecil is tempted, but he doesn't trust himself not to destroy the thing. Well, try to, anyway; it's alarmingly durable, and he's not sure he's prepared for how it might respond. "It's fine," he says instead. "Are we done? Can we go?"

"Sure," Carlos says, still clearly worried. He pokes at the phone a few times, rapidly but seemingly at random, and drops it back in his pocket. "This should be nearly everything, anyway. Enough to get us through for a while."

Together they wrestle the cart to the checkout, despite its increasingly irritated groans. Getting through the checkout then takes another forever. It doesn't help that Carlos pauses in the middle of unloading items for scanning to rip open a loaf of potato bread and shove a couple of slices into his pocket. "Nothing!" he says with a nervous grin, moving his hand around in his pocket like he's wadding the bread around his phone. "Nothing at all! Everything's _fine_."

Cecil still heard most of the faint _dullard strung on the wire_ before it was muffled, but Carlos is trying so hard. Cecil thanks Carlos, takes another slice of the bread and feeds it to the cart to pacify it since the loaf is already open now, and goes back to unloading.

They eventually get through checkout and then loading the car, where Carlos drops his still-sandwiched phone into one of the bags just before they close the trunk. Once they get home, Carlos takes that bag in first and stashes the phone in the freezer while they put everything else away. Cecil thinks he should probably urge Carlos not to risk damaging his phone, but … it's been through worse, and he's feeling vindictive, so he doesn't.

With everything finally in place, Cecil sprawls on the couch. After a few minutes Carlos comes over and sits sideways next to him. He takes Cecil's hand and starts massaging it gently. "You okay?"

Cecil closes his eyes and just grunts, because … just … _ugh_ , but Carlos waits patiently, so he summons the energy to answer in words. "Bad mood. Sorry."

"I'll take care of the shopping next time," Carlos offers.

That's not really the problem, or at least not most of the problem, but it's nice of him to offer. Cecil thanks him and tries to focus on that instead of, well, everything else.

A few minutes later, Carlos asks, "Have you thought about lunch?"

"Nngh."

"I was thinking we could … maybe we could go to Big Rico's," Carlos says. That tentative note is back. "And then, do you think I could — sorry," he amends when Cecil flinches. "I mean, I'd — I'd like to try to go back to work after lunch. I mean, if the other scientists are going to be keeping an eye on me anyway, they might as well do it there, right? And I should still be able to get back in time to have dinner ready by the time you get home."

It's not a terrible plan. Whatever is wrong with Carlos doesn't seem to be related to any kind of feedback or irritation from the wards at the labs, and given that, it's probably about as safe as home, especially since he has to be getting restless by now.

Cecil opens his eyes to look at Carlos, who is watching him with hope and love and a deep contentment. "Do you want me to talk to Dr. Renegade with you? Maybe we can get her to waive those post-incident requirements."

"We'll see." Carlos doesn't look too worried.

* * *

Their lunch is remarkably peaceful, and Cecil finds himself in a slightly better mood by the end of it. He's still worried, of course, but he no longer feels on the imminent verge of shattering into millions of fragments and swirling out into the infinite void, scattering throughout the farthest reaches of space and time in a fundamental dissolution of identity and legal residency.

He suspects the real reason for his higher spirits is Carlos, who is in an _excellent_ mood at the prospect of going back to work. Well, "work", at any rate. The point is he's happy, so much that he's cheering up Cecil despite everything, and Cecil knows better than to inspect gift horses too closely, for fear of attracting the attention of the government satellites controlling them.

Their civic slice-consumption duty completed for the week, they hold hands for the short walk next door to the labs. When they get there, though, Carlos lets go to straighten his lab coat. He knocks on the door and then stands back. His posture is alarmingly good, and his hands keep fiddling with the drape of the lab coat.

Master Rawhide eventually answers the door.

"Ah, it's you," he says. "Wait right here." He closes the door on them.

A short while later he opens the door again and walks outside, now wearing safety goggles and a construction helmet that is decorated with a few still-smoking scorch marks. "She's coming," he says as he walks past them, trailing the smell of burned plastic. "Good luck!"

He gets in the Sciencemobile and drives away.

A deep _whump_ from inside the building makes its windows shake. After another couple of minutes, the door opens.

"What," says Dr. Renegade.

"I'm checking in," Carlos says. "I want to try one of the challenge questions again."

Dr. Renegade crosses her arms and raises her eyebrows. "Oh, really? Okay, surprise me."

"The force field equation," Carlos says. "I think it's a trick question, and there isn't one, because it isn't actually a force field, it's a magical ward."

Dr. Renegade studies him for several seconds. "Why? Analysis."

"Because I felt better inside the labs than outside, and that's the only place except for home where that's been true. We have wards at home that were shielding me, so there are probably wards around the labs as well. That would explain why Cecil expected me to get worse when we left the labs. And I couldn't come up with any models to generate an actual force field with science."

"Nice try," she says flatly. "But I've replicated the wards before with technology, so there's at least one potential equation."

Carlos wilts, crestfallen.

Dr. Renegade glances over at Cecil, clearly disturbed that Carlos isn't plastering on a grin and pretending everything's fine. Cecil returns her look with one that says _I know_ and _you see what I'm dealing with_? and _please for the love of the imperfect heavens give him something to focus on for a while that isn't me so he'll remember there are other things he cares about_.

It occurs to him too late that she may only have a rudimentary knowledge of Speaking Looks and so may not have gotten all of that, but to his relief she gets enough to sigh and yield. "But I don't actually know the full equation for the magical version yet, and that's what's up now, so I guess you pass," she says, moving so she's not blocking the doorway. "Come on in. Get out of the psychic hailstorm for a while, at least."

Passing through the wards is very nearly as unpleasant as it was on Valentine's Day, and Carlos makes a face. "Ours are better," he whispers to Cecil, smugly. Cecil is torn between pleasure at the sentiment and dismay that Carlos still clearly doesn't recognize his own hand in both sets of wards.

"Why are —" Dr. Renegade starts sharply, but then she carefully adjusts her tone to something more neutral. "What brings you here? Work, daycare, or other?"

Carlos straightens again. "Work, if that's allowed. And _other_ , actually. Sorry, but … would you mind fixing this again?" He works a cloth bundle out of his pocket and hands it to her.

Dr. Renegade just stares at the bundle. "What is this, and what do you want it to do?"

"Oh! It's my phone."

"You kids these days and your fancy phone cases," Dr. Renegade says. She sets the bundle on the nearest table and unwinds the scarf to reveal a dishtowel, and then unwraps the dishtowel to reveal a cloth napkin, and then unfolds the cleverly tucked cloth napkin to reveal a sock, and then shakes the phone out of the sock.

Cecil now has a much clearer picture of at least one reason why their lunch was so peaceful.

"Hooray, something else going wrong," Dr. Renegade mutters as she puts the phone in her own pocket. She raises her voice — not in anger, as would be normal for her, but just to a comfortable average-threat-level volume. "Okay. Let's get you set up first."

She leads them to Carlos's office. "Sit." Once Carlos does, she leaves for a moment and comes back carrying a large amount of paper. She slaps the first thick packet down in front of Carlos. "Assessment. Go through this first. When you're done with that, turn it in, then start working through these." She drops the much larger pile of papers on the corner of the desk.

Carlos squirms with guilt. "I didn't study," he admits, as if he's confessing to a reckless dereliction of duty.

Dr. Renegade covers her face with one hand for a moment, then says, "That's why it's an assessment, not an exam. I just need to know what you've retained so I know what you can work on."

Carlos relaxes, huffing a quick sigh of relief.

"What's your phone doing that needs fixing?" she asks.

"It won't stay off, and it won't stay quiet," Carlos says. "It's being really disruptive."

" _Really_ disruptive," Cecil agrees, though he regrets saying anything when Carlos gives him a look of unhappy apology.

Dr. Renegade rolls her eyes. "Bulletproof, wiz— _magic_ -proof, and telemarketer-proof, but God forbid it's _disruptive_."

"I know you've done a lot of work on it already, which I really do appreciate!" Carlos tells her. His voice turns plaintive as he adds, "But it's causing problems and I just want it to _stop_."

Dr. Renegade opens her mouth to say something but then closes it again. After a couple of seconds she settles on saying neutrally, "I'll see what I can do. Anything else I should know about it?"

"I recorded my observations," says Carlos, passing her a handful of paper.

Dr. Renegade gives him an alarmed look. "Municipal food paste," she reads. "Persimmon Chipotle Flaky-Os, fire, bell peppers, tomatoes, jalapeños —"

Carlos patiently reaches out and flips the papers over to reveal the extensive notes he's made on the back of the shopping list.

"Oh," she says. "Good. Let me know when you're done with the assessment."

"Yes, ma'am," Carlos says. His attention is already on the first page, so he doesn't see her twitch. She jerks her head for Cecil to follow and leads the way to her own office.

She slams the door once they're both inside. "If he _yes-ma'ams_ me about one more time …" she growls, but then she makes herself take a deep breath. "I get it, I think. You ever see him with his CO?"

Cecil shakes his head.

"Even without full introductions, it was obvious he took orders from her. Probably some part of his brain knows that whole military-hierarchy thing is missing and is trying to map it to a science context. So, lucky me, he plugs me into that slot. _Ugh_." She shudders and then grabs a cable from a shelf next to her desk.

Cecil slumps into a chair as she shoves her keyboard aside before connecting the cable to the phone and then her computer emphatically. "I know what you mean," he says, glum again.

She pauses to study him briefly. "What."

Cecil isn't sure how to explain. "I just want the rest of him back," he says instead.

"So say we all." She retrieves her keyboard and slams it back into position. "Okay, tell me what's really going on with this phone."

"Me?" He's flattered to be asked, but …. "I'm — I'm not a trained scientific observer. I didn't take any notes."

"Maybe not, but Carlos is way off his baseline and I already know your observational biases. You're a journalist. Journalize."

Cecil tells her as much as he can remember as she pokes at the phone and computer and occasionally swears under her breath. She already knows it's been playing song clips for notifications, though, and that really doesn't sound that bad out of context, so he has to explain the context, and then he's telling her about the entire dispiriting morning.

She whistles when he gets to the frozen-foods aisle. "Dissing the hair? To _Cecil_?" she says, nudging the phone with a capped marker. "That's playing with fire." She glances up at Cecil. "I'm actually surprised it's still in one piece."

"Multiple pieces didn't seem likely to improve the situation," he points out. She concedes the point and lets him finish.

"So you think he only went back to making his own decisions … to make you happy," she determines. "Ouch. You know — he's not being a wizard, which was definitely a complication between the two of you. He's trying to stay here for you. He's trying to restructure his life around you. And you seem pretty miserable about it. You do know that sounds an awful lot like a textbook monkey's paw situation, right?"

Cecil sags. "I know, but I don't see how it _could_ be. I don't remember wishing for anything at all in weeks, and I passed all the screenings! Well, they _said_ I passed. Well, the first screener hummed in A-flat, and the second screener flapped up-and-down instead of back-and-forth, and the third spun widdershins. It's not as if I could cheat on those tests; I'm no practitioner. But …." He gestures aimlessly but hopelessly. "I don't know what else could do this to Carlos, either."

"I've already given you my speculations," Dr. Renegade says. "It still _could_ be something unrelated."

She pokes at the phone for a few more seconds and then apparently sets it to process something, because she pushes it aside but leaves it connected to her computer. She opens a drawer and pulls out some kind of science device, setting it on her desk with a far heavier thud than its toaster-oven size would suggest, and then retrieves a bouquet of screwdrivers from another drawer.

"I have another possibility," she says as she removes several screws from the device. "You're going to hate it."

It's uncommonly kind of her to warn him. Cecil braces himself. "Go on."

"You know about that thing where your radio show follows him around, right?"

"You mean the Doom of the Voice of Night Vale?" Cecil asks, careful to keep his voice low. The curse is an old one, but it hasn't been relevant in years. He was unpleasantly surprised to discover that Carlos was under it.

She gives him a look. "… Right. So wasn't that originally supposed to kill him? Or destroy him as an enemy of the City Council or something?"

Cecil squirms. She's right that he hates this topic. "Yes," he says slowly.

"But it didn't."

"Well, Leonard didn't complete that assignment, on account of his ambiguous termination," Cecil says. "I struck out that duty clause from my contract when I signed on as host, so it was just … suspended, I guess."

"So maybe that's taking effect now — not killing him," she adds hastily, probably in reaction to Cecil's expression, "but destroying the City Council's wizard enemy by erasing that part of him or something."

"It doesn't work that way," Cecil says. "It doesn't have the power to do that on its own. And even if it did, why would that happen now, after all this time?"

"Time doesn't work here," she points out. "With or without Carlos getting involved. I still can't even work out how long your show is — every time I try to measure it directly, my timers turn into exotic spiders. I've started getting nasty messages from the Tarantula Civic Association accusing me of abetting illegal immigration." She scowls at her device and grabs a different screwdriver to pry at a panel.

"My show?" Cecil repeats, mystified. "You could just ask me. It's as long as it needs to be."

"Wow, that's exactly what I expected and yet spectacularly unhelpful. Anyway. Don't try to tell me _you_ don't have some kind of power — you can pacify a mob by randomly imposing 'the weather' on them, and you occasionally get ahead of yourself and report things literally _as_ they're happening, without bothering to leave your studio. That curse made sure your show was glued to Carlos, so I suspect that whatever power you have is what was supposed to take care of the actual killing part, acting through your show. Yes?"

Cecil clears his throat. "We … really shouldn't be talking about this."

She waves a hand. "Our whole team is allowed to discuss Forbidden Topics up to Class Three as long as we clearly confine them to scientific hypotheses. Which this absolutely is."

Cecil actually just meant that it's _gauche_ to talk about these things, not Forbidden, but she's relentless in the pursuit of scientific understanding, so he gives in. "Yes," he says carefully. "A practitioner on the City Council lays the curse, but that just makes its targets vulnerable. Carrying out the sentence was part of Leonard's contract. It's not part of mine." After Leonard left his position so abruptly and … vividly, Cecil managed to get the requirement to terminate the City Council's curse victims stricken from his own contract before he put blood to parchment, because he wasn't interested in their politics and he certainly didn't want to go the way Leonard did that time.

The position of the Voice of Night Vale comes with a power beyond simple personal or political influence. That power works in frequency and resonance, in sound and silence; he has a measure of direct access to it, but it's most effective through NVCR's equipment. Cecil actually knows little about its scope and limits, station management guarding that knowledge jealously, but as far as he's concerned, it's just another journalistic tool. As a radio host, he's most effective if he can give relevant, up-to-date information. He's never been interested in using the power of community radio for sinister purposes; he just wants to use it to serve Night Vale.

" _Could_ you, though, if you wanted?" Dr. Renegade asks. "Actually … you know. Carry out the sentence. On Carlos."

He's so unused to her showing a degree of delicacy that it takes him a moment to realize what she's asking. Then he's outraged. "I would _never_ —"

"Okay!" She raises her hands, placating. "Not accusing, just asking. Take it easy."

Cecil sits back, but he insists, "I would never hurt Carlos."

"I believe you. I don't think you would … intentionally. But what — hang on," she says when he tries to protest again. "Like I said, I'm just hypothesizing about that old curse. What if —"

She takes a deep breath.

"What if there was a monkey's-paw contamination somewhere that cleared up before it could be detected? Or even one that the city officials didn't publicize? That curse didn't just disappear, if it's been making your show follow him around all this time, waiting for the sentence to be carried out. If your power — if the power of the Voice of Night Vale had some kind of cross-reaction with a monkey's paw while being attached to _you_ , maybe that was enough of a trigger to — to satisfy the curse on him, even though you didn't mean it to. So he's all 'perfectly perfect non-wizard boyfriend' and that doesn't actually make you happy."

And there goes Cecil's confidence — not with a bang but a whimpered quack — that this situation can't be one he somehow caused. She's right that magical forces can interact unpredictably, even disastrously, and … and her suggestion fits perfectly.

The worst part is that she doesn't sound angry or even cruel about the possibility that Cecil is to blame.

Cecil isn't bound to power anyone's curses. If he's going to harm anyone with the power of community radio, it will be because _he_ wants to. He would never, _ever_ use that power against Carlos … but he can't be entirely certain that power is completely under his control. Or, more importantly, completely under his conscious control. Wishes don't _have_ to be spoken, after all; that's just the easiest way to provide the requisite levels of intent and focus.

But the outstanding curse on Carlos, the Doom of the Voice of Night Vale, already _is_ intent and focus.

"If … if you're right … that means it could be permanent. That he'll never come back."

"Maybe." She jabs at the device with the current screwdriver, testing the edges of the panel. "I don't know. It could be permanent, or it could only last until he's strong enough to fight it off. It's just another possibility to consider."

Her voice barely crosses seventy decibels; for that matter, she maintains a nearly perfect 175 hertz. Even through the fog of worry and guilt, Cecil can tell something is wrong with her attitude.

He narrows his eyes. "You seem very … calm about it." _Calm_ is a relative term, of course, but wouldn't she be angry at Cecil specifically if she really thought this was his fault? He _barely_ feels imperiled, even sitting here at her mercy with no witnesses. How dare she take Carlos's condition so cavalierly?

Or is this just the relative calm before a whirlwind strike of retribution?

Her jaw tightens visibly. "Yes, it's called being _nice_. Because I can't yell at Mr. The Scientist right now — he'd just take it and then salute me or something. It would be like kicking a puppy with nice hair. And I can't yell at you, because he'll just come running in to defend you. And then salute me. But don't think I'm _calm_. There's a _reason_ everyone else happens to be working off-site today."

She levers up a corner of the stubborn panel with the screwdriver, wrenches it off, and flings it aside with such force it buries itself in the wall like a throwing star.

"He got himself tagged with that curse years before I even heard about this place, and it sounds like you at least gave him this much longer. Maybe he's been on borrowed time all along — and if so, you arranged the loan. That's … something. But if it _is_ that old curse, your show wouldn't need to follow him around anymore, right? So I'll check on that this afternoon. Maybe we can rule it out."

"Thanks," Cecil says hollowly.

Dr. Renegade makes a face and starts to speak but then changes her mind, instead fiddling with her device in a way that makes it buzz softly for a few seconds. She applies one of her screwdrivers to adjust the frequency of the buzz up and down as she almost, but not quite, says something several times.

Then she makes the device stop its buzzing and tosses the screwdriver back in the pile. She retrieves a bundle of wires from another drawer, along with a stripping tool, and starts applying the latter to the former. "Look, I don't do relationship talks. That's Kate's thing. But you might want to take some time to think about whether you can work something out with him the way he is now, if the rest of him _is_ gone. I mean, it's still _him_ , kind of," she says. "It mostly looks like the role he's been playing publicly for years. I'm just not used to interacting with that facade for any length of time, and certainly not _seriously_. Other than the part where he's super into you, do any of us know who _Carlos the Scientist_ even is, if there's no snarky wizard at the center of the lollipop?"

Cecil is surprised to realize that's not a rhetorical question.

Technically, the scientists have known Carlos longer than Cecil has, a quirk of happenstance and timing for which Cecil has _mostly_ forgiven them. Their affection for Carlos is plain, and this situation is clearly just as disorienting for them as it is for Cecil. As worried as Cecil has been about Carlos, he hasn't really considered that he's not the only one who knows and misses the _real_ Carlos, or at least the rest of him. He's not the only one suddenly having to consider how to relate to Carlos if this change is permanent.

"He still likes science," Cecil offers, since Carlos did say he missed doing that.

"Well, 'science', anyway," Dr. Renegade says, making the air quotes despite her full hands. "As for _actual_ science, let's see how he does on that assessment before we go drawing any premature conclusions."

The words are critical, but her tone is less scathing than it is pensive, so Cecil just leaves it alone and tries to come up with what else he knows. "He still says he likes cooking, and … um …."

Dr. Renegade takes her wiring and connects parts of her gadget together while he struggles to come up with something to say about the current Carlos that isn't tied directly to himself. When he still hasn't come up with anything by the time she finishes wiring, she says, "Yeah, exactly."

They share a moment of mutual depression.

Dr. Renegade then pokes at her device with yet another screwdriver. "I wonder, sometimes, what he could have been if he hadn't gotten sucked into the whole magical warfare thing. It's easy to miss, but behind the hair and the cocky attitude and the frankly alarming combat reflexes — all of which are apparently still there, by the way, so we know that much about him — he's got a pretty sharp brain for scientific study. That 'force field' question was just supposed to be a way to check if he was back to himself, not something he was really meant to work out while he still thinks he's just a scientist. And that's not new, either — I didn't actually expect him to make as much progress as he did in all our fields when we had to crash-tutor him that first year."

Cecil is startled. "You didn't?" He knows Carlos didn't _technically_ start out as a scientist, but — "He seemed like such an expert even from the first day."

She snorts. "Science education in Night Vale … people here wouldn't know actual science if it bit them. Sadly, they wouldn't be _surprised_ if something claiming to be science bit them. And you were so dazzled by his looks, he could have read out a _Twilight_ novel in Latin and you would have thought it was cutting-edge scientific research." Her computer chimes, so she turns back to it and then starts poking at the phone again. "But Carlos — there's a reason I hired him to handle our public interactions. He puts up a good front, and he really sells what he does know, and he's disturbingly good at misdirection. But then you turn around and he actually knows more of what he's talking about than you expect, a little deeper each time. If he hadn't dropped out of high school …."

Cecil suspects she actually represents what Carlos might have been, under very different circumstances. He didn't miss the significance of Carlos's plan to specialize in practical theoretical physics. But if Carlos hasn't told Dr. — hasn't told Julie he wants to be like her, it's not Cecil's place to say it.

"He told me he's wanted to be a Warden ever since he found out what they were, when he was a child," Cecil tells her instead. "Even if there hadn't been a war — or wars, really — he was always planning to protect people with his magic." He uses Carlos's phrasing for that, because he's gotten really tired of the common wisdom about the Wardens of the White Council lately.

"Pity," she says. "Then again, he'd die of boredom if he landed in straight research. As much as he criticizes other people for being adrenaline junkies, he's probably the biggest one of all."

She unplugs the phone from her computer and hands it to Cecil.

"It looks fine. Right now it's set to a basic ring for calls, a simple chime for texts, no sound for other app notifications. I can't promise it'll stick, but it should." She raises her voice slightly. "Even if it was smart enough to have its own opinions about this situation, that would mean it's smart enough to realize this city is _really_ not friendly to sapient electronics and so it shouldn't go around calling attention to itself. Or casting blame without evidence, or just piling on confusion and stress for someone it presumably wants to help. Because those would all be good ways to end up on the wrong end of a coffee hammer, or left to rot at the bottom of Radon Canyon."

The phone doesn't react, which Cecil hopes is a good sign. He tucks it in his pocket and then, after a brief hesitation, pulls out his own phone and brings a picture up on the screen. "He was planning to be a Warden even when he was very young, but before that …."

She takes his phone to look at the picture of little first-grade Carlos in his adorable little lab coat, clutching his cunning little science tools. Her face twists. "This is unbelievably cute and I hate it." She hands his phone back. "When Carlos is better, send me a copy. There may be photo badges in our future."

The picture is a little outdated, but it _is_ a good likeness. "Okay." Cecil starts to put his phone away, but it feels hotter than it should, so he sets it to reboot first.

"Good. Now scram. You're on your way to work? I'll keep an eye on him, and I'll let you know if anything comes up."

Cecil thanks her and heads back to Carlos.

Carlos seems deeply absorbed in his assessment, but he glances up as soon as Cecil reaches the doorway, and he sets his marker down when he recognizes Cecil. "You're headed to work now?"

"I am," Cecil agrees. He still has a little more time, but he doesn't think he can bear to stay right now, knowing this could all be his fault. He gives Carlos his phone back, explaining the current settings. He has to raise his voice towards the end as an irregular banging noise starts up from one of the labs.

Carlos thanks him, disregarding the banging with the casual ease of long practice, and they kiss goodbye. "Have a good show, _precioso_." Carlos reaches over to pat the little radio on his desk and brightly promises, "I'll be listening!"

He's so eager to expose himself to the very power that hollowed him out and unmade him and that — that _hurts_.

Cecil forces an empty answering smile and hurriedly leaves for the radio station.

* * *

Cecil is surprised by just how many text and voice messages he has when he checks his phone during the weather. He reads the ones from Dr. Renegade first ( _Results inconclusive — couldn't get him away from radio but purple noise levels consistent_ is first, followed by _Making him stay here — pick him up when you're done DEPRESSING EVERYONE wth_ ) and then checks the rest.

There are still a few left when his phone starts burning. That's not a big deal, because the fire extinguisher is handy, but it's strange, because this model has been _much_ better about not catching on fire than his last one. Especially since he stopped communicating with anyone in the desert otherworld within the Dog Park. He doesn't _think_ he's that close to the upgrade window, but he'll have to check later.

He wipes the residue from the phone's screen once the fire is out, but he's going to have to reset it, and the weather sounds like it's wrapping up. He doesn't need to check those last few messages right now anyway. He gets the idea. He goes back on the air with an awkward chuckle and assures his listeners, and especially his friends among his listeners, that he's fine. That sometimes he might get a little glum or nihilistic, but the vast uncaring universe will be entirely unaffected and they'll all be forgotten in a million years, so any setbacks or worries or passing moods of the moment ultimately amount to nothing.

He tosses in a heartwarming list of matriphagic insects and arachnids, even though he'd planned to save that for Mother's Day. It'll be just as charming a second time, he's sure, and he wants to end his show on an upbeat note.

Carlos is mostly in a good mood when Cecil picks him up, but something has him distracted. He grumbles about not having been able to get dinner ready, so Cecil thinks that's all it is at first, because he gets more animated when he moves on to complaining about the intricacies of nuclear physics for the rest of the ride home.

But he gets a little distant again as he throws together a quick yet surprisingly elaborate dinner, something he calls "a stroganoff-inspired experiment". He refuses to take off the glasses or even the lab coat the entire time, with a determination that leaves Cecil hoping he doesn't plan to _sleep_ in them.

Once they're seated and eating, Carlos gets to talking about Dr. Renegade's research into the intersection of technology and magic. It sounds interesting enough, but there's an edge to his voice that grows sharper as he goes on.

"She's very good," Carlos says. "She's _brilliant_. She's kept all of us alive this whole time in Night Vale, which is probably some kind of record. But she … she …."

There's nothing that mushroom could possibly have said or done to him to justify how hard he stabs it.

"She has this bizarre idea she'll make better progress if she's correlating her research with — with a _wizard_ ," he spits out finally.

Oh.

"There must be any number of minor practitioners here, reasonable people, but _no_ , that's not good enough!" he exclaims. "Just because she's at the top of _her_ field, she assumes she can only work with someone who managed to get approved under some arbitrary and biased ranking system from a _clearly_ corrupt organization."

That's just the start of a _very_ long rant in which Carlos passionately espouses every negative opinion, stereotype, supposition, and unsupported accusation about wizards Cecil has ever heard. It all sounds depressingly judgmental and hostile, piled together like that. Carlos seems particularly affronted about the secrecy, sneakiness, and duplicity he seems to think are practically job requirements, and _wow_ does he ever have a lot to say on the topic of decapitations. Cecil numbly thinks he should ask for Carlos's sources sometime, because even he hasn't heard some of these criticisms before.

"— _any_ accountability, and — Cecil?"

Maybe it's a good sign that it took him this long to notice that Cecil has stopped eating, and has put his utensils down, and is letting his hands toy with the napkin in his lap. At least Carlos isn't _entirely_ focused on pleasing Cecil above all else. Maybe even unwitting self-loathing has an upside.

"Carlos …" he tries, but he has nothing.

"Oh! I've been — I'm sorry. I shouldn't have taken over the conversation so much — and with such an awful topic, too. I didn't mean to ruin dinner for you. We can talk about something else. Your show was —"

"I've met wizards," Cecil says quietly.

"Oh, _Cecil_." Carlos uses the tone of futile outrage most people would reserve for discussing a librarian encounter at the very least. "I'm so sorry."

Cecil winces.

"No? But —"

"They were good people," Cecil says. "One helped defend Night Vale in a mighty battle against — against ghouls." As well as against another wizard (who happened to be a version of Carlos) allied with a vampire, he does not say, because that won't help his case at _all_. "Another was very distinguished, and … terrifying, really, but in a good way, and helping save people from evil, shape-shifting sea monsters even in retirement." Cecil doesn't dare say anything more specific about Carlos's own _bisabuela_ for fear of triggering another psychic reaction. "And one …."

_One is beautiful, and amazing, and perfectly imperfect, and I love him. And he's sitting across from me but he's not there, and I miss him so much —_

"One has been protecting Night Vale for years," he says instead.

Carlos gives him a skeptical look. "If this is what being protected looks like, maybe Night Vale would be better off without it."

The casual, contemptuous dismissal of his own hard work and dedication, of everything he has been through defending the residents of Night Vale, feels like a knife in Cecil's chest.

Seeing his expression, Carlos raises his hands, yielding. "Okay, bad subject. I really am sorry I brought it up. We can talk about something else." He reaches over and squeezes Cecil's hand, his irritation at wizards crossfading to concern for Cecil. "Like your show. Are … are you okay? Because you sounded a lot better after the weather, but I was pretty worried about you before that, and you're not eating now."

Cecil makes himself start eating again. The food really is quite good, as it always is when Carlos cooks. It would be swell if he could care about that. "I'm fine," he says dully, remembering every single time he'd resented hearing that from Carlos when it was patently not true. "It's just been a very stressful week."

"Well, I'm cleared for desk work, so you can worry less about me, at least," Carlos offers. "And if there's anything I can do, you'll tell me, right?" His eyes are anxious behind the glasses.

 _Come back. Be yourself again_. "I will," Cecil lies.

* * *

Cecil insists on washing the dishes after dinner, not because he wants to, but because he's tired of feeling like he's not doing his part. Carlos looks like he wants to protest but can't find an excuse. After a few minutes he slips his arms around Cecil from behind and offers to help, at least. When Cecil turns down both the assistance and the groping, he wilts a little but accepts the rejection, taking one of his textbooks into the den.

When the dishes are finally done, Cecil braces himself at the prospect of joining Carlos in the den. He can't say exactly why he's so uneasy, because he's confident Carlos won't risk upsetting him by talking about wizards again, but the casual ease he usually feels during a night in with Carlos is stubbornly absent. Lacking anything else to suggest — besides doing laundry, which he's not nearly desperate enough to resort to yet — he dishes out some frozen yogurt and takes that along.

He thought — or possibly hoped — Carlos might keep reading, but the book is closed as soon as Cecil sits down. Carlos watches him with a growing intensity, so Cecil keeps his eyes on his own dessert, trying to soothe his throat, which is aching with unsaid words. Unfortunately, that means he has nothing to do once he's finished, since Carlos has dazedly gotten through only about half of his own portion.

In desperation he opens Carlos's book, but he promptly closes it again. Nothing with that many graphs can possibly be safe to read without training.

Carlos apparently surprises himself with a yawn.

"Did you nap at all today?" Cecil asks, because that's a safe topic.

Carlos shakes his head, still mid-yawn.

"You should probably get to bed soon, then," Cecil says. "Shakeena said rest should help you recover faster."

Carlos looks exasperated but just says, "If you really think I should, then okay."

Cecil should be getting used to that by now, but he's not. Uncomfortable, he stands and reaches to take Carlos's bowl. Carlos hastily shoves the remaining frozen yogurt into his mouth and then makes strange faces as he tries to swallow it without giving himself brain freeze. Cecil can't help finding that adorable, despite his discomfort, but he doesn't want to give Carlos an excuse to put off going to bed, so he makes himself take the dishes to the kitchen.

Cecil goes ahead and washes them, too, because while he trusts Carlos with his life and his heart, he doesn't trust him not to wash the damn dishes if he gets half a chance. When he finishes with that, he turns to find Carlos waiting for him, too many things in his expression to piece out.

"Bed?" Carlos asks quietly.

Cecil doesn't have a good reason not to, so he agrees. He can at least make sure Carlos actually gets to sleep. He lets Carlos get through his bathroom tasks first and then takes his time brushing his teeth. When he gets to the bedroom, Carlos has finally taken off the lab coat and changed into his typical, ruthlessly practical, might-have-to-rush-into-danger-at-any-moment night clothing, which is to say he has shed his outer layers and now is in a t-shirt and boxers.

Cecil grabs the first comfortable sleepwear he finds — rhinegraves and a tube top — and changes. Carlos is watching him from the bed, still wearing the glasses, so Cecil points out he should take them off to make sure they don't get damaged. Carlos agrees and takes them off, though he doesn't look happy about it.

Cecil turns off the lights and lies down. He relaxes and breathes evenly, hoping to encourage Carlos to sleep, but it isn't long before Carlos's hand is caressing Cecil's chest, and then Carlos is much closer, gently seeking a kiss.

Cecil accepts briefly but then draws back with a sigh. "I'm … really tired," he says.

Carlos immediately stops and pulls back, but his, "… Okay," is puzzled and uncertain. He shifts around to curl against Cecil. "Is this all right?"

Cecil goes ahead and draws Carlos into one of their usual sleeping arrangements, because he wants the closeness too, much more than he doesn't. "This is fine," he confirms.

It's hard to explain, even to himself, why this is as far as he's willing to go right now. It's not as if he's not still interested in Carlos physically, and it's been too long since they've had the chance to do more than make out on the couch.

But anything more feels wrong, somehow. It feels like … like cheating on Carlos.

Dr. Renegade is right that, while part of Carlos is gone, much of Carlos is still here. The Doom of the Voice of Night Vale was designed to be a killing curse, so Carlos and Cecil are both unimaginably blessed that even this much of Carlos remains. Maybe, eventually, that will be enough. Maybe the relationship they build based on who they both are now will even be much like the one they had before.

But right now, all Cecil can see is a distorted image of _himself_ — his own desires and preferences, his own former prejudices, his own old ideas of a perfect partner. He really hopes this isn't what his mother meant when she told him someone would kill him one day and it would involve a mirror.

He turns that possibility over in his mind a few times, but he can't find it in himself to believe in it. Heartbreak is rarely fatal, and metaphors weren't usually her style anyway.

Of course, Mom also used to say, "You can't learn to love others until you learn that others are fiction and that self is unreliable." Carlos is being particularly fictional now, and Cecil has rediscovered that he can't even trust himself, so maybe this is just a vital relationship stage for them.

He can't remain aloof from Carlos for long without giving him some kind of reason, and he doesn't even know if he really wants to. But for now, Cecil needs time. Time to hope, maybe, or time to grieve, or just time to accept, but time.

He lies in the dark, listening to Carlos gradually slipping into sleep.

* * *

Cecil isn't sure when he fell asleep himself, but he's startled out of it when Carlos flails awake. The room is bright, _impossibly_ bright, so bright Cecil's still-waking brain first thinks the old StrexCorp has somehow brought their Smiling God into the bedroom. At that thought Cecil flails right back at Carlos, latching onto his arm, because he couldn't possibly endure another year-long separation.

Then the overworked bedside lamps and ceiling light explode, plunging the room back into near-total darkness. Cecil has just a moment to be glad of the measures they've taken to prevent glass from flying around the room in cases like this, but then Carlos makes a despairing noise that sends Cecil diving to light one of the room's several emergency candles. "Carlos? What is it?"

Carlos is sitting up, in a manner of speaking. He's clutching the sheets desperately, and his breathing is harsh, rapid. Whatever he's seeing, it's not in the room with them.

Cecil carefully reaches across to touch his arm again and then his cheek, as a test. When Carlos doesn't reflexively knock him away either time, he moves around to kneel on the bed in front of Carlos, taking his face in both hands. "Carlos, you're okay. You're at home. You're with me. You're all right." He continues the simple, calming litany, calling Carlos back.

Carlos usually responds pretty predictably to nightmares. For mild ones, he just snuggles in more closely and goes back to sleep. For stronger ones, he apologizes for waking Cecil and then goes to another room to exercise for a while or read for the rest of the night. For particularly upsetting ones, he apologizes, grabs some weapons, and goes out on patrol. (His response to scheduled communal nightmares is to be out of town.) It's rare for him to get lost inside himself like this. Most of the few times Cecil can bring to mind were shortly after he came back from the desert otherworld.

Carlos starts shivering, so Cecil takes a moment to wrap the blanket around him, talking the entire time. Carlos's eyes finally start to focus. "Ce-Cecil?"

"I'm here," Cecil assures him. "You're all right."

Carlos shakes his head. "No, th-there … _teeth_ , and I — I can't — _can't_ —" His expression crumples and Cecil hastily pulls him into a hug, trying to help ground him.

Carlos clings for a minute, but then he starts shaking harder. "Light, please, light, it's — it's dark —"

Cecil gives him a quick squeeze and lets go to light the rest of the candles. The combination still isn't very bright, but Carlos looks a little less freaked out, so Cecil leaves the room long enough to turn on the hall and den lights, as well. They spill into the bedroom, bringing the light level there all the way up to murky.

Cecil goes back to the bed and carefully sits next to Carlos. "Is that better?" Carlos doesn't try to answer, and he's staring at the doorway fixedly, so Cecil tries, "Do you want to go out into the den?"

Carlos nods jerkily, so Cecil helps him untangle himself from the sheets and blankets and guides him out to the couch. Carlos lies down and promptly curls up, staring into the middle distance. Cecil brought the blanket along and covers him with it, but Carlos is still shivering, so he goes back to the bedroom, snuffs the candles, and grabs another blanket and a quilt from the closet.

He hesitates before piling them on. "Do you want me to join you? Or would that be worse?"

Carlos takes a few seconds to answer, and when he does, all he says is, "Cold," small and miserable and hopeless.

Cecil decides to listen to his instincts. The couch really is too narrow for this, but he gently encourages Carlos to shift forward, toward the front edge of the couch, and then carefully wedges himself between Carlos and the back of the couch. When Cecil starts piling the blankets on top of both of them, Carlos squirms his way into Cecil's body heat, which is a better answer than he managed in words. Once the blankets are settled, Cecil wraps his arms around Carlos as well to give him that much more warmth, and Carlos relaxes a fraction.

Cecil realizes far, far too late that bringing a distressed wizard into the den for the light probably should have just made that light blow out, too, but the power remains reassuringly, frustratingly steady for the rest of the night.

* * *

**[The Weather](http://jimsbigego.bandcamp.com/track/love-whats-gone) **

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes direct quotes from episodes 58 ("Monolith") and 68 ("Faceless Old Women").


	5. Thursday, February 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something has to give.

Shortly after sunrise, the couch abandons any pretense of being big enough and Carlos slides off. Startled, he reflexively rolls into a defensive crouch, but after a few seconds of cautious assessment he realizes he's not under attack. Once he notices Cecil watching, he straightens, quickly tucks the blankets back around Cecil, and kisses him on the forehead. "Go back to sleep, _querido_." His tone is loving but distant, and he doesn't wait for a response before heading to the bedroom.

_Back_ would require Cecil to have been sleeping in the first place. He was dozing at most, caught between worry and discomfort as tightly as he was between Carlos and the couch. But he doesn't feel especially motivated to get up, either, so he closes his eyes again.

Carlos emerges from the bedroom after a couple of minutes, and he's soon chopping something in the kitchen. Sleep remains elusive and Cecil is too warm anyway, so he gets up.

The apartment is filled with a subdued air of quiet fragility. Cecil briefly wonders if the feelings delivery service has been by, but this isn't really esoteric enough to be theirs. Their brand is — or would be if they had one — focused on rarified specialization, avoiding anything that might prompt accusations of impersonal, mass-market cheapness. Besides, this feels home-crafted.

Carlos is steadily dicing a variety of vegetables. He's dressed and has his fake glasses on, but at least he isn't already wearing the lab coat, though he has brought that out of the bedroom and draped it carefully over the back of a chair. Even though he's not showing off, his knife work has always been very good, and Cecil just watches his hands for a bit, appreciating his skill.

When Carlos finishes dicing the last pepper, he sets down the knife but doesn't turn. "I think you might still have time if you want to go back to bed," he says, his voice dull.

He looks so alone. Cecil goes over to him and offers a hug. Carlos is hesitant as he accepts, but as soon as he's actually folded into the hug, he settles into it gratefully.

They stand that way for a couple of minutes before Carlos mumbles, "Thank you," into Cecil's shoulder. "For last night."

"Do you want to talk about it?" Cecil asks.

Carlos shakes his head, one sharp twist of refusal. That's a little uncomfortable since he still has his head tucked against Cecil's shoulder and his glasses aren't exactly soft, but neither of them wants to let go.

"Okay," Cecil says, before Carlos can second-guess his honest reaction in a misguided attempt to find an answer he might think Cecil will like better.

After another minute or two of nearly comfortable silence, Carlos speaks again, venturing each word as cautiously as a new intern would choose their steps across the minefield in front of the filing cabinets. "Cecil? I'm … I don't …."

When he doesn't continue, Cecil starts to draw back, concerned, but Carlos tightens his hold, as if he needs the protection of their embrace for the words he's trying to produce, as if those words won't survive exposure even to their homey kitchen.

Once Cecil settles down, Carlos says quietly, "I know something's wrong. And you don't — you don't have to tell me anything you don't want to. But I'm — I'm _trying_ —"

"I know," Cecil says. "Oh, my darling, diligent Carlos, I know. I'm sorry I can't tell you everything, but please don't think you aren't trying hard enough." If anything, they have the opposite problem. Part of the tension between them, Cecil thinks, is from the sheer effort Carlos is exerting. "You could try less," he suggests.

Carlos makes a soft sound that doesn't have the energy to be a chuckle. "I don't know how."

And that is so exactly, precisely, entirely Carlos that Cecil draws back just far enough to kiss him.

They rest their foreheads together after, just breathing.

"We'll get through this," Cecil says finally. It's more hope than it is knowledge or even confidence, but like any other human magic, love requires belief. "It's going to be difficult, I think. I'm sorry for the ways it's hard for you. I'm sorry for the ways I'm _making_ it hard for you. I don't know how long it will be, or who we'll be when we get there. But I love you, and that will never change." He's certain of that much, no matter what portion or fraction of Carlos he's allowed. "We'll get through this." He considers for a second and then adds, "Unless we all die horribly first, forcing us into breach of our recklessly made promises and obligations, of course."

That startles a short laugh from Carlos. "Of course," he agrees. He kisses Cecil once more before finally pulling away. "I need to start the omelets before the eggs try to hatch."

"Oh, that rarely ever happens," Cecil says.

"Rarely? Should we check my observation logs? Because I'm pretty sure I remember Frances Donaldson having trouble with that right before Thanksgiving —"

"Well, seldom," Cecil amends. "Well … anyway, think of the excitement, from the first tremble of the shell until the moment a limb emerges to reveal which endearing or horrifying little creature is curled within. Think of the bonding opportunity from the dubiously legal household gambling on the outcome —"

" _Nope_ ," Carlos interrupts. He points a whisk at Cecil for emphasis as he declares, "No hatching in my kitchen. House rule."

His grin may be a little shaky, and in a way this is still him trying harder than he needs to, but the mood he's trying to recreate is less about pleasing Cecil individually and more about reassuring them both with a level of comfort they've built together. Cecil may not feel quite as playful as he usually would as he challenges both arbitrary revisions of the house rules and potentially colonialist flag-planting in shared territory, but that doesn't stop him from trying, too.

* * *

Cecil drops Carlos off at the labs on his way to the radio station. He stays in the car and watches to make sure Carlos gets inside safely, rather than walking him to the door and risking a conversation with one of the other scientists. Their less-than-subtle attempts to discuss wizards were probably well meant and apparently carefully done, but they weren't the ones who had to sit through the aftermath.

He spends the morning chasing down more quotes for the latest on the ketchup story. Apparently no one expected the alliance with mustard, though Cecil hasn't been able to determine why. He's always been a little suspicious of mustard himself. All that brashness had to be hiding something.

Shakeena texts him that she's picking him up for lunch, which is odd. He doesn't have any direct conflicts, though, so he heads outside at the time she indicated to find her just pulling up in her minivan.

She doesn't have any news or grand revelations; she just asks what kind of food he wants. She seems to want somewhere with a drive-thru, but she vetoes McDonald's because they keep causing traffic detours onto her street, and Cecil vetoes burger places in general because he's just not up to risking abstraction today. Shakeena starts to suggest Arby's, but when she sees his expression she retracts the idea. The idea of Taco Bell doesn't get them any further, because Carlos's opinion of them consists of _well, at least they're not Jerry's Tacos_ , which is not a topic Cecil really wants to dwell on at the moment.

They end up at KFC, where the staff have formed the words _NO CONDIMENTS_ on the menu board using masking tape. Then Shakeena pulls around to the back of the parking lot, turns off the engine, and starts unpacking the food.

"I got a call this morning," she says once they've sorted out their respective meals. "Carlos is worried about you. But he's afraid he's been too smothering, so he asked me to see if there's anything I can do to help you without pressuring you too much."

Cecil stops prying at his box of food, letting his head fall back against the headrest in exasperation.

"I really don't think you'd understand how weird that entire conversation was," she continues. "The _regional commander of Wardens_ usually only calls me when there's some kind of disaster, not when he thinks his boyfriend might need an emotional intervention. But you know me, Cecil. I don't tiptoe. And he's not the only one who's worried about you. So if there's some way I can help you, tell me and I'll see what I can do. Otherwise, let's talk about bowling."

Cecil goes back to prying his box open. The industrial-grade staples are annoying, but the paperboard tears around them easily enough once he gets an edge free. "Do you know a way to —" _fix_ isn't the word he wants "— get the rest of Carlos back yet?"

"No. I could tell you different, but I'd be lying. I still haven't even figured out what's going on with him to start with."

"Well, I haven't been able to reach anyone. Carlos's _bisabuela_ is away on business, even though she's _retired_ , and Harry … the number he left isn't working, and any other numbers I find for him turn out to be so old they've been reassigned to pizza parlors or people offering exciting personal encounters. Have you thought of anyone you could trust?" he asks.

"At the level we'd need? No. So you're not seeing any improvement, then?"

Cecil slouches further into his seat. "Not unless you count spending all of dinner explaining how awful wizards are as _improvement_. For him, I mean," he adds, because he thinks he remembers a meal or two over the years that have featured her doing exactly that. "It doesn't hurt him when the wards are parted anymore, at least. And he did blow out a few lights with a nightmare last night, but nothing after that."

"So his magic slipped through again. Was it a nightmare about wizard stuff?"

Cecil shrugs. "Something about teeth." That hardly narrows anything down, of course. Teeth are always on the Top Ten Nightmare Features list, in some fashion. Thanks to StrexCorp's ideas about interior design, they've been in the top two for the past couple of years.

"That's amazingly generic," Shakeena says, agreeing with his thoughts.

"If I pushed, he'd probably tell me," Cecil says. "Which is why I won't. I don't want to take advantage of this. Of _him_. He's so much less … less _himself_ than I realized, but he knows something's wrong, and he's so stubborn about understanding things. If just a passing mention of something that might have reminded him of being a wizard left him in agony … I'm worried. I don't know if we have much time to find a way to help him more safely."

That thought doesn't help Cecil's mood.

"I know that's hard, honey, and I'm sorry. But look. We both have to get back to work pretty soon, and I didn't really come out here to talk about your boyfriend. Are _you_ okay? Because if I find out you're actually drinking alone and crying in a quiet room …."

Cecil manages to roll his eyes despite the oppressive weight of her ominous trail-off. "That was the advice of _the stars_. I wasn't really doing that."

"Well, you weren't okay, either, and we all let things go too long. You have to remember that we're here. I know this thing with Carlos is hard," she continues, talking over Cecil's attempt to interrupt, "but there's always going to be some crisis or emergency or deadly peril. You have to make time for yourself, for an actual life. I know that's not always easy, but don't forget you have a lot of friends who are happy to help you with that."

Cecil sits back and sighs, keeping his eyes on the helicopters in the distance, too far away to have discernible colors. "I'll be all right. I didn't mean to worry anyone. I'm just having trouble dealing with this thing with Carlos. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad if this past month or two hadn't been so rough for us. It's just hard to … to want to take care of myself when he's _so_ determined to take care of me right now. Especially because this might actually be partly my fault."

She frowns. "You were sure it _wasn't_ your fault just the other day. Or were you lying because we were deep inside the lair of interlopers?"

"No, I meant what I said. I really didn't think there was any way I could be to blame. But I talked to Dr. Renegade yesterday, and … there's a chance my twisted, base desires and insufficient vigilance were _part_ of whatever happened." He eats a potato wedge gloomily.

"Recognizing our role in harming others is always rough," Shakeena tells him, patting his shoulder in bracing sympathy. "Especially if you reject the sweet comfort of denial."

Cecil nods. Believing he was blameless had been much easier. But this burden is his, and for Carlos, he'll bear it. "We'll figure something out. And I'll start making plans again when we get settled down from this, one way or another. I just need time." It's funny how that's the one thing he really wants from anyone right now, even though it isn't real. "Just … give me a little time."

Shakeena accepts that, after some skepticism. He's frustrated to be pushed about the topic when he's got other things to worry about, but he's not-so-secretly pleased at the same time, because he doesn't want a repeat of last year, either.

She's a good friend. He needs to remember he has those.

Even if she refuses to start the engine until he agrees to meet her for a pick-up bowling practice next week.

* * *

Once Cecil is back at the radio station, he closes himself in his office and assembles his show very carefully. He doesn't exactly script it, but he makes sure not to leave himself any openings to wander into the weeds of personal reflection while he's on the air. He really doesn't want to worry his friends and loved ones any more than he clearly already has.

Or inspire any of them to intervene any more forcefully, for that matter.

He has plenty of material, at least. But arranging and rearranging his outline isn't quite enough work to keep him busy all the way to the start of his show, so his thoughts inevitably turn back to Carlos. Cecil really had thought they would find a solution by now — that Shakeena would develop a magical treatment, or that Dr. Renegade would fix it with science, or that he would be able to obtain the stealthy help of one of Carlos's outsider friends.

But … they haven't. It's been several days now, and Carlos isn't getting better.

Generally speaking, Cecil has no interest in the White Council or its concerns beyond their importance to Carlos. They'll endure or they won't. Night Vale endures, sometimes because of wizards and sometimes despite them, and that's enough for him. But Carlos isn't caring about his White Council responsibilities right now, which means Cecil has to care about them on his behalf. Carlos was supposed to return to some operation or another, and whatever it was, it was important enough that his captain had to fill in for him. Even aside from that operation, _Carlos_ is important. He would never — normally — want to disappear without his captain knowing about it.

Which means Cecil is going to have to notify her soon.

He can't help flinching at the prospect. Part of that is anticipation of how much Shakeena will yell at him, and part is instinctual. He wasn't lying to Carlos about having met wizards who also happened to be good people, but he also knows that three wizards is not a sufficient sample size (as Carlos would say) and their poor reputation locally is not _only_ a hallmark of high-quality official propaganda. Carlos wouldn't work for anyone he didn't think was a good person, but … Carlos is delightfully imperfect, and he has his own biases when it comes to wizards.

Regardless, Cecil has learned that the hardest part of talking to wizards is apparently locating them in the first place. He still doesn't really feel like talking to the scientists right now, so he sends Dr. Renegade a text asking if she has contact information for the captain.

She gets back to him within a few minutes. _Officially no, but I should be able to find a number if we decide we need it._

She quickly follows that with another text: _Are we really bringing her in now?_

_Not yet,_ Cecil sends back. _Just planning; will discuss_. There's nothing wrong with acting on impulse, but when they had no leads on what had happened to Carlos, they had all agreed that bringing in someone from the Council was too risky. Now that they have a reasonable explanation, the risk to Night Vale itself and the rest of Carlos's friends is decreased, but he should give them time to make preparations and arm themselves suitably before he acts. That's just common courtesy.

Cecil doesn't _think_ his power is subject to wizarding laws, but even if it is, the risk to himself is nothing if it will help Carlos. Besides, Dr. Renegade has called Carlos's captain "pretty cool", so it _might_ not go horribly.

Maybe.

_I'll look_ , Dr. Renegade answers. _Meanwhile, I've modified the testing conditions to check whether your show still follows Carlos around._

That's nice enough, Cecil supposes, but having had some time to consider the matter, he's not sure what her results would prove. Yes, the curse made his show follow Carlos around for all those years, and if it's been satisfied it wouldn't need to enforce that anymore … but Cecil isn't sure that means the phenomenon will actually stop. What if his show has grown to _like_ visiting Carlos every day?

How could it not?

Just because his show doesn't have the excuse of the curse anymore, that doesn't guarantee it won't still find a way to caress Carlos's ears every evening. Dr. Renegade's testing might provide further evidence of Cecil's guilt, but it can't exonerate him. Still, her comment does remind him of something he'd been wondering about, so he texts back, _What's purple noise?_

The question proves to be a mistake. Dr. Renegade proceeds to regale him with incomprehensible commentary about electromagnetic spectra and measurement methodology, each text more bewildering than the last, until his phone finally gives up and bursts into flames while trying to load the seventeenth message.

Once Cecil has sprayed it down, he's tempted to just leave the phone off for the duration of his show. The radio station's fire-extinguisher budget is _not_ generous. But he can't really be unavailable right now, especially if Harry Dresden or Carlos's _bisabuela_ should choose today to get back to him.

Cecil briefly entertains a fantasy in which all these communication problems are solved by Harry Dresden and Mouse just showing up — _not_ by blasting their way out of the dog park again, thank you very much, but perhaps by strolling in from just outside the town. They could all have a nice laugh about the problems wizards have with phones and texts and _being available ever_ , and then Harry could turn out to know one simple trick for popping the missing parts of Carlos back into place ….

Except.

Except Harry probably _would_ just stroll right up, expecting a warm welcome from his old friend … and Carlos, who currently _hates wizards_ , would only see a dangerous wizard looming. His physical reflexes are just fine, and he hasn't _seemed_ to be carrying any firearms but he's definitely quick to wield his knives. Harry is a friend, but he's very powerful and slightly not-human, and there's no reason he wouldn't defend himself — and he wouldn't know to hold back because Carlos has _no magical defenses_ right now ….

This fantasy isn't a welcome one anymore, so Cecil shows it to the door.

His phone seems reasonably stable as long as it's idle. If someone does call or text, he'll probably be able to get their information from the screen and shut the phone down if it seems about to combust again, so he goes ahead and resets it.

It doesn't catch fire again during his show, but it doesn't offer any wizardly contact, either.

* * *

Carlos makes a simple but lovely dinner. He even offers Cecil a few small ways to help, rather than insisting on taking care of everything himself. Then, when it comes time to wash the dishes, he doesn't push to do them himself or even to share the work, but he keeps Cecil company the whole time, and he helps in little ways, like cornering the bottle of dish soap when it gets a little too frisky. It's nice to spend time together sharing the chores while respecting their usual division of responsibility.

Now that Carlos has spent so many days resting up, Cecil would expect him to be at particularly high risk of cabin fever, but they're both tired from their interrupted sleep the night before, and Carlos seems to like the idea of just being lazy at home tonight. Cecil tries to figure out what's wrong with his phone, and Carlos settles in at the other end of the couch with his textbook, sitting sideways so he can tuck his feet under Cecil's thigh.

Cecil investigates a few recently updated apps, but none of them really stand out as likely culprits. He hopes he doesn't have to restore his phone to its original settings.

"Could it be a virus?" Carlos asks, taking a break from reading. "I mean, mine was being weird, and now it's better, but I didn't think to keep it away from yours, and now you say yours is being weird. And they're like computers, and computers get viruses, right? So maybe it just has … I don't know, the flu or something?"

Cecil smiles. "They don't usually get that kind of virus," he says gently. He's amused at first, because Carlos is still so adorably inept with technology, but … he doesn't know what kind of virus protection Carlos's phone has, if it has any. And considering its many modifications and adaptations, there's always a chance it could be patient zero for some kind of cross-species contamination. Cecil starts chanting his way through the logs and definitions in his own phone's anti-virus app.

"You could probably ask Dr. Renegade to take a look," Carlos offers between chants. "She's really good at fixing my phone. And she fixed my radio today. I was so worried I would miss your show when I couldn't get it to turn on, but she got it working just as your show was starting." He frowns slightly. "Actually, she said I should tell you that initial results are promising but additional testing is indicated. I don't know what she meant, though. Are you doing science without me?"

Cecil stops fiddling with his phone long enough to reach over and give Carlos's ankle a comforting caress. "No, I think she's just using me as an experimental subject or something. I'm sure it's not important." As he expected, her experiment clarifies nothing, leaving Cecil mired in not-quite-proven guilt. "But if it comes up again, give her my thanks anyway, please."

"Will do," Carlos promises, flashing Cecil a quick smile of relief. "And I'll pick up a few spare radios tomorrow morning before work, just to be safe." With that he returns his attention to his book.

Now that he has mentioned Dr. Renegade, Cecil realizes that his phone's recent fires have closely followed texts from her … and come to think of it, they've all been since she handled his phone. That's worrying.

Or maybe that timing is a coincidence and the fires have been the result of a wizard attempting to call Cecil back. _His_ phone doesn't usually malfunction just from calls or texts from Carlos, but Carlos does try to temper his effects on electronics. Maybe ….

Distracted by his musings, he doesn't register the phone's slowly rising temperature until it's suddenly scorching hot. He drops it to the floor — which is less immediately flammable than the couch — with a sigh as it catches fire once more.

But Carlos panics even as Cecil is reaching for his pocket extinguisher. "Cecil!" he exclaims, jumping to his feet. With a wave of his hand he redirects the heat from the phone — and more than is entirely comfortable from Cecil's feet at the same time. His aim is usually better than that.

Cecil picks up his phone, which is ice-cold now and completely dark, and it's not until he's straightening again that he realizes what just happened. He turns to look at Carlos, worried.

"What." Carlos is staring down at his own hand, mostly bewildered but with a growing suspicion.

Cecil stands, trying not to panic at the prospect that Carlos might be about to suffer from more psychic backlash. "Carlos, it's all right —"

Carlos edges back, though he's still looking at his right hand. "The First Law of Thermodynamics … and I don't have any … but I felt the heat _move_." He winces in pain. "I felt changes in the wards even when no one else seemed to notice anything." He rubs at his temple with his left hand but shifts back again when Cecil tries to step closer. "No, I need to _think_. And — and she expected —"

He presses both hands to his head but pushes on.

"She asked if I remembered being — I know she asks trick questions sometimes, I thought she was just checking for delirium, but she acted surprised …."

His next step backward is more of a stagger, but he scowls despite the clearly growing pain as he yanks the glasses off and shoves them in a pocket of his lab coat. " _No_ , I'm going to get this. The lights. The lights blew out, there's no good reason, we have _way_ too many candles and flashlights, and you're —"

He looks up at Cecil then, squinting, possibly with psychosomatic myopia and definitely with pain.

Cecil has no idea what he should say. "It's all right," he tries to tell Carlos again, helplessly holding out a handkerchief. Carlos accepts it but stares at it in confusion for a few seconds until he realizes his nose is starting to bleed again.

"You're not surprised," Carlos says. "You hated when I talked about them, but not like — you said you'd _met_ some, and you weren't — and you were so _vague_ about —" His eyes widen. "No. _No_. I'm not, I promise I'm _not_ —"

Cecil can only hope Carlos has recovered enough to withstand this, because it's clear he's not going to leave it alone. "Oh, poor, confused Carlos, you are, but it's fine —" Cecil says, reaching for him.

"Don't!" Carlos jerks back, avoiding contact. "I don't know if it's safe." Then he shakes his head. "But that doesn't mean — I'm not a wizard," he insists yet again. "I'm _not_. I would never do that to you, I _wouldn't_."

"To … _me_?" Cecil asks, bewildered. That makes no sense, because he's _fine_ with Carlos being a wizard. He might have his complaints about the workload, yes, but he doesn't see Carlos's wizardry as some imposition or burden inflicted on him. He never has.

Okay, yes, his reaction to learning Carlos was a wizard was … slightly less gracious than he would prefer to remember. At the time, he had — he thought — only known wizards by their poor reputation, so he had feared that his loving boyfriend was only a lie told by a dangerous and deceptive wizard. Once he realized that, instead, the wizard was simply the inconvenient secret identity of his still-loving boyfriend, he discarded those happily baseless fears.

Sometimes people have socially awkward, clandestine jobs, and that's just how it is. That's not anything to get worked up about. It certainly doesn't merit the panic and revulsion in Carlos's eyes.

Cecil is _positive_ those emotions can't be based on anything he could possibly have wished, even unconsciously. He hadn't felt that way even on the day he first found out, and he certainly doesn't now. He loves _Carlos_ , wholly and completely. He may not know all of what, when, where, or why Carlos is, but has known and loved _who_ Carlos is since the moment their eyes first met.

Judging by Dr. Renegade and even Shakeena, some of the few people who know Carlos is a wizard might be confused enough to think Cecil has some kind of a problem with that fact, but he can't think of anyone who fits that description _and_ would be so determined to please Cecil at nearly any … cost ….

Oh.

Oh dear.

"Carlos, I have a very important question for you," Cecil says urgently.

"I really don't think this is a good time for us to watch _The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance_ ," Carlos says, looking bewildered.

"No, that's not — never mind. I know you're very confused right now, and upset, and in pain. I'll explain as much as I can, very soon, I promise. But I need —"

Cecil goes ahead and despises himself a little for using this.

"I need to ask you about something first, and I need you to think very carefully about the answer, and I need us to do this before anything else. Please? For me?"

Carlos stares at him for several more seconds but then swallows and nods.

Cecil hates that it works, but if it can help Carlos, he's going to use it. "Carlos, when you were hurt — I know you don't remember much about what happened, but I need you to think very hard. Is there any chance, any chance at all, that you made a wish that day?"

Carlos just looks surprised by the question. "Why would I make — I don't think so? Especially not when there's a restriction in effect."

"Please. We have to be certain. Any time after you got back to Night Vale before Valentine's Day — is there even a _chance_ —?"

"I was finally back with you. Why would I need to wish for anything?" Carlos asks, which is sweet and _completely not helpful_.

"If you _did_ ," Cecil pushes.

Carlos is clearly trying to think back, trying to answer, but he's soon shaking his head again. "I can't think of any reason I would," he says, plaintive with his failure to provide what Cecil wants. "I have a good job, which is nice. I have _you_ , which is everything. The only thing I can even think of wanting is to be a better boyfriend to you — to be as good of a boyfriend to you as you deserve."

Of course.

Cecil knows, with a cold and irrational certainty, that this is the answer. But now he needs … "May I borrow your phone for just a moment?"

Carlos hands over his phone, but he says stubbornly, "You said you'd explain." He wipes again at the trickle of blood from his nose with the handkerchief still in his other hand.

No fresh blood appears, though. Cecil aches to see Carlos hurt at all, but … if Carlos was still fighting off a mental compulsion in his current state, he would be in much worse condition than this. He seemed to stop pushing as soon as he reached the possibility he could be a wizard. It's not like him to give up.

"I will explain, but I need to clarify one more detail," Cecil says. The controls and settings on Carlos's phone are just different enough to be frustrating. He manages to open a text to Dr. Renegade and get _this is cecil did anyone ever screen carlos_ into it. He studies the phone's display to locate the _send_ icon, but the message sends itself with a timid _blip_ before he can actually make contact with the icon. He then goes to send the same message to Shakeena, and by the time he's three words in the phone is autofilling the rest for him. This time the message sends as soon as he even glances at the _send_ icon.

As annoyed as he's been with this phone, he has to concede its predictive algorithms are pretty useful.

A couple of seconds later, the phone beeps politely with Shakeena's response. _Not me_.

Cecil is sure now. Carlos has been, by some definitions, an absolutely perfect boyfriend. Unnaturally perfect, to the point of upsetting Cecil — which in turn upset Carlos, because wishes effected by monkeys' paws always backfire on the wisher. Carlos wasn't in town for most of the screenings, and now that Cecil is thinking about it, he realizes Carlos would have avoided any kind of magical screening within Night Vale anyway, by anyone except _maybe_ Shakeena.

And he spent all of Valentine's Day fighting in various locations across Night Vale. No one screened him specifically for monkey's-paw contamination after that, in part because real public concern about the threat had died down by that point. And that assumes a standard screening _could_ detect it against, past, or through the interference of a full wizard's magical baseline.

Dr. Renegade was right that the spirits that infest a monkey's paw can interact with other powers. She was just mistaken about _which_ power she blamed. If the spirits were presented with a wizard whose desire involved being different in any way, they could probably just shape that wizard's magic into a compulsion and redirect it right back on that wizard, the way Lee Marvin's space-adventure characters use mirrors to redirect laser beams. All they would have to do then is provide occasional corrections, and otherwise, they could sit back and enjoy all the havoc stemming from their victim's self-reeducation.

Carlos isn't giving up at all. He's just not-giving-up on the wrong thing. He's _very_ diligent, and apparently that extends even to unconsciously maintaining his own mental blocks.

Cecil reaches for Carlos's free hand to tug him back to the couch, but Carlos avoids contact again. Disappointed, Cecil pulls back a little. "Do you want to sit down first?" he asks instead.

"Do you want me to?"

Cecil wants Carlos to decide for himself. "You don't have to, but it might make things easier."

"Then yes," Carlos says. He leaves space between them as they head back to the couch, and he maneuvers to keep Cecil to his left as they sit, as if he still particularly mistrusts his right hand.

Once they're both seated, Cecil takes a deep breath. "I'm going to explain now, but I'm going to ask you a few more things first." When Carlos gives him a long-suffering look, he hastily adds, "They're part of the explanation. I have to do it this way. Trust me?"

"Of course," Carlos says automatically.

Cecil actually would prefer he _think_ about it at all first, but too late now. "Okay." Contradicting a compulsion directly is dangerous, but sometimes a stray thread of discrepancy can help someone unravel the imposed worldview less hazardously. "Carlos … how do you know so much about wizards?"

Whatever question Carlos was expecting, that wasn't it. "A scientist is observant," he decides after a few seconds, but there's a note of uncertainty.

"So you've observed wizards?" Cecil presses.

"No!" The response is clearly automatic again, and Carlos rubs his forehead as he tries to reconcile his answers. "Everyone … you can't always observe things directly, and sometimes you wouldn't _want_ to, but indirect observation is valid. Their effects, the signs they leave behind, the things people say — you can calculate an effective description based on secondary data."

Cecil tries a different angle. "When did you first come to Night Vale?"

"June 2012," Carlos says, this time easily rather than just automatically. A sweet smile breaks through, even now, as he says, "It feels like I've known you so much longer, but I guess _literally_ it hasn't even been four years."

Cecil didn't expect him to anticipate and counter that already. He could keep trying that angle, but he's sure Carlos would merrily construct an elaborate alternate history for himself. It doesn't help that Cecil probably gave him plenty of practice in their first not-quite-two-years.

But he's running out of potential approaches. The only other one he can think of is much riskier. "Do you remember when Khoshekh stayed with us?"

"Sure. You were so considerate of my allergies."

"Well, one day during his stay here, you looked after a plas— a dog for a friend. A large dog with excellent manners." Mouse had been a perfectly charming houseguest and an invigorating conversationalist.

Carlos nods. "Yes, I — _dammit_." He pinches the bridge of his nose, but in what looks more like frustration rather than pain. "I _had_ it, but there's this — this _fog_ in my brain and it just rolled right in. Like San Francisco — or no, like that documentary by Stephen King."

Cecil's heart sinks. Carlos is just too good at anticipating and parrying. Appeals to science, believing his own cover stories, and protective amnesia are certainly gentler methods of enforcement than blinding, aversive pain, but they all have the same end result.

Everyone assumed someone else had imposed all this on Carlos; his wizardly nature is so important to him, the possibility he did something to banish it never occurred to them. But Cecil came close soon after Carlos first woke, when he considered just how reckless Carlos could be about dedicating himself to Cecil, so why didn't he put it all together then? Did he let his own craven, selfish appreciation of Carlos's reshaped identity blind and distract him, even knowing the cost to Carlos's well-being?

The cause of Carlos's condition isn't some scientific puzzle for Dr. Renegade to unlock or some arcane magic for Shakeena to counter; it stems from his relationship with Cecil, so Cecil should be able to fix it. He should know exactly what to do or say to snap Carlos out of his compulsion safely. He should be able to come up with the right hint or suggestion to help Carlos free himself.

If only _he_ were a better boyfriend —

But that kind of thinking is particularly dangerous right now, when he doesn't know enough about the nature of Carlos's contamination. "This isn't working. I'm sorry. I wanted to find a way to do this gently, but I don't think I know how. So …." He braces himself. "Carlos, you've been different these past few days."

Carlos looks surprised and then worried. "Bad different?"

"Just different," Cecil says quickly, because he really doesn't want to get into that. "We think — Dr. Renegade, Shakeena, and I — that you're under some kind of compulsion. When you notice a discrepancy or start to remember something that doesn't fit, the strain hurts you, especially because you're already injured."

"The headaches," Carlos realizes.

"Yes, but they're not _just_ headaches. That kind of pressure can really hurt you. It's dangerous. That's why we've been trying to protect you. But I think you'll probably just keep noticing things that don't really fit, and you've been getting better, and … really, you have the right to decide for yourself. I just — I just hope you've recovered enough to survive this. But I don't _know_." He swallows, nervous.

Carlos starts to reach for him before hesitating. He studies his left hand for several seconds. Then, clearly uneasy but determined, he carefully takes Cecil's hand to squeeze it reassuringly.

Relieved that Carlos isn't avoiding contact anymore as much as by the contact itself, Cecil makes himself continue. "You have a choice. You can try to forget what happened; I won't explain anything else, though we can talk about it again later if you want to. Or I can explain the rest now even if it will probably hurt you. Which … which one do you want?" Then he hastily amends that to, "Which one do you want _for you_?"

Carlos straightens with resolve. "I want to know," he says, because in so many ways he still is himself. His expression darkens further, towards anger. "I don't want something controlling me. Or _changing_ me."

Cecil knows exactly what he means.

That doesn't mean he wasn't afraid of this, but honestly, he's not sure how long he could have endured the other answer. "Okay. You're going to want to deny, refuse, reject — but please try to believe me. That might make this a little easier." Probably not, but he can hope. "Carlos, you _are_ a wizard. You have been since you were seven years old. You came here to Night Vale over a decade ago, soon after you became the regional commander of Wardens in this area. That's when you heard me play the — the banjolele, on my first day."

Carlos's hardening expression of disbelief falters. "I — I remember that. You were nervous — but so professional! And your _voice_ …." His gaze turns distant for a moment, as does his tone. "Your voice made everything right again."

He shakes himself a little, returning his attention to the present. "I know you've been hosting your show for a lot longer than four years, but I really have only been here that long. And I wasn't doing those wizard things you listed before that, of course, I was … well, whatever I was doing can't be that important, because it was before I met you, but I'm sure it must have been some kind of science. But … the radio station's signal doesn't carry all that far, so _how_ could I have heard — oh! Time!"

"Time?" Cecil repeats, his tentatively rising hopes freezing in place.

"Time doesn't work here!" Carlos says with far too much relief, and Cecil's hopes flop back down. "I mean, not the way it does other places. We just ended up in different relativistic frames … somehow …." He hikes his assured grin back into place. "Dr. Renegade can probably explain it. Or maybe it's something else I can investigate! But I'm sure it all still makes perfect sense."

"No," Cecil says, even though that makes the confidence seep right back out of Carlos's grin, leaving only a pleading desperation. Cecil hates to shatter his illusions, but Carlos did ask for the truth. "I'm sorry, but you really are a wizard. I didn't know it at the time, but you've been listening to my show ever since my first day. You feel like you've known me for longer than not-even-four years because you _have_. The day you met the scientists wasn't your first day here — you had already been protecting us from the shadows for years. That's just when you had to go undercover with them. And I … I didn't react well when I found out you were a wizard, it's true, but _we got past that_. I can't say I never minded you were a wizard, but I don't mind now, and I haven't minded in a long time. I actually like that you're a wizard. You're very impressive."

For just a moment, Carlos looks devastated, but he rallies, assuming an air of polite challenge as he tries to push up the glasses he isn't wearing. " _If_ I were a wizard … I would have other responsibilities. Secret things. I couldn't be here for you as much as you — as I should be. You wouldn't be able to tell anyone about me. You couldn't be proud of — of a wizard boyfriend."

"But I am," Cecil says simply. "I could be and I am. Most people think my boyfriend is an amazing and beautiful scientist, which he is, though not in exactly the way they think. And a few special people know my boyfriend is _actually_ , and secretly, an amazing and beautiful and highly accomplished wizard. And I am proud of him, of _you_ , either way."

"Cecil …." Carlos looks lost. "I would be anything for you, but …."

Cecil tries not to flinch at the wrongness of that.

He can only think of one more thing that might work. He takes both of Carlos's hands and looks into his lovely, confused eyes.

Cecil is no practitioner, but he knows certain basic principles of magic.

"What I want you to be, _Carlos Maria Ramirez_ —" he says, before pausing for a moment.

Carlos shivers at the carefully precise pronunciation of as much of his true name as he has so far offered Cecil. Cecil knows there is more, and he is perfectly fine with being allotted only this much. Carlos, like anyone else, deserves to have parts of himself he keeps only to himself, to choose what of himself he shares.

Once the shiver has passed, Cecil continues, "— is completely and entirely _yourself_. Even the parts you think I don't like."

It may be wrong of him to use his apparent control of Carlos's agency even just to give him that agency back, but their world is an imperfect one, and he can only do his best.

For a moment Carlos looks confused, and then for another moment he looks utterly betrayed. "Don't —" he starts, but then he startles himself by coughing. He takes a second to recover from the pain this worsens in his head, straightens, and then coughs again.

"Carlos? Do you need —" Cecil starts.

Carlos shakes his head a little, but before he can speak, he's coughing again, deeply, curling inward from the force. Cecil starts to reach for him, but Carlos puts out a firm hand to hold Cecil back as he picks up the handkerchief from his lap with his other hand and starts coughing into it so hard he doesn't seem able to _breathe_.

Just as Cecil is starting to panic in earnest, Carlos coughs up something dark and unpleasant, its stygian glisten only briefly visible before Carlos flings the handkerchief to the coffee table. As if to demonstrate one of his science rules, Carlos recoils in the same motion, pushing himself back into the corner of the couch. He grips his head in both hands.

" _Madre de Dios_ ," he manages, in the strained tones of someone in the throes of a collapsing compulsion. Cecil has to swallow a whimper of sympathetic dismay, but if the compulsion is already dissolving this quickly, Carlos will probably shake it off any moment now. Though, come to think of it, if not just Carlos's mind but also Carlos's _magic_ is fighting its way free —

Carlos drops his hands to stare at Cecil in sudden realization and the power promptly goes out — not just in the den, but in a wave across their entire apartment.

And, judging from the distant sounds of resigned outrage, the rest of their building.

And, judging from the almighty crack of sound from outside, the distribution transformer across the street.

Cecil can still see a little, between the early-evening glare of the city, the faint moonlight, and the flicker of Carlos's phone as it struggles to withstand the wash of magical energies as Carlos's magic and his natural emotions both reassert themselves. The glowing green energy Carlos is gathering in one hand for some form of attack — because, thank all the spires of various construction, he's _back_ — briefly helps as well.

When Cecil leans forward to try to light the candles on the coffee table, though, Carlos dismisses that energy and lunges forward, blocking Cecil with his left arm as he snatches a stick of chalk from his pocket protector. He swiftly draws a circle around the handkerchief even as he's exorcising the spirits from the foul substance hidden within. The words of his ritual are formulaic, but his voice is low and vicious.

He doesn't lower his protective arm when he's done, too preoccupied with glaring at the vacated cloth, but when Cecil gently wraps a hand around his left wrist, he startles, dropping the chalk.

Carlos could free himself from Cecil's hold with no effort at all if he wanted to, but he doesn't try. He just stares at Cecil's hand for a long time. "I — I should …" he tries finally, hoarsely, but he doesn't finish the statement.

The last time Carlos was fully himself here, he thought he should leave in order to protect their possessions from his lack of magical control, so maybe that's what he's trying to say now? "The power's already out here," Cecil points out. "I don't think it's safe for you to leave until you … get your bearings. You can go if you need to, of course, but … I'd like you to stay, if you're willing."

Carlos takes a long breath, slowly releases it.

"Let me take this off," he says finally, with no indication what _this_ is. His statement is not a plea, but it's not a command either, and he doesn't move to pull free.

Cecil lets go, and Carlos immediately rips off the lab coat and flings it across the room. He rubs his face vigorously with both hands for a few seconds. Then he retrieves his stick of chalk from the floor, but once he's done that, he just sits there, staring at the chalk in his hands as Cecil finally lights the candles.

"Cecil?" he says after a couple of minutes.

"Yes, Carlos?"

"Last week, while I was away, you said something on your show about a collection of magical artifacts."

"The Unwise Magical Artifact Strategic Reserve, yes."

"Do you know where that actually is?"

"Well, they moved it to a secure and secret location, so no."

Carlos closes his eyes briefly. "Would _their_ idea of 'secure and secret' be an unmarked, shallow grave in a vacant lot off Bandera, by any chance?"

"Well, I certainly wouldn't have thought to look there, so it seems reasonable," Cecil says. "And the City Council does control several seemingly vacant lots through blind trusts and other obfuscating mechanisms."

"So that's why it kept herding me that way," Carlos mutters. "Would they say anything if approximately eighty percent of their 'strategic reserve' was suddenly an unmarked, shallow pool of nearly frictionless dust?"

"Well, that would mean admitting their security measures failed, and the effect on the local economy if news got out … I expect they'd hush it up. If something like that happened."

"I knew something _wrong_ was there, but I didn't have time to check. And I thought the hydrant washed anything that would have mattered off me. I didn't think it could already be … I'll have to get back over there and make sure whatever's left can't cause any trouble, if it hasn't already been moved."

He keeps his eyes on the stick of chalk as his fingers slowly turn it over and over.

"I don't get …" he says finally. "I didn't wish anything. I was a little busy. I wasn't exactly saying, excuse me, I know you want to pulverize me and all, but I just need a second to wish myself completely _useless_ —"

"Don't," Cecil pleads, though he regrets his reaction when Carlos stops talking, because he can't tell whether Carlos originally meant to stop there or is just obeying. He wants to take Carlos's hand but doesn't know anymore if he can trust Carlos to pull away if he doesn't want that.

And he's dismayed that Carlos seems to be missing an important magical principle.

"Oh, Carlos. A wish doesn't have to be spoken. We were both heart-sore, but I was safe in the bunker, while you were out _there_ , on Valentine's Day. You told me you thought you were failing at our relationship — and you're not, you're _not_ , but if you believed it at the time … and you were so bruised spiritually. Hearts can make wishes too, for all they don't usually have mouths or voices, if those wishes are strong enough."

Carlos closes his eyes again. "If all I could think about, in the few seconds I had _time_ to think, was that you deserved better?"

Cecil can't bear this. "Do I really make you feel that way?" he asks mournfully.

Carlos glances over at him, startled. "Cecil, no." He takes Cecil's hand, which solves that problem. "You've been so forgiving, even though I've barely been here at all —"

"I got mad at you when I walked in the door Saturday night," Cecil points out.

"You found out I was leaving again," Carlos says. "You're allowed to get fed up. I shouldn't have gotten mad back. I think I was just edgy about Valentine's Day and I took it out on you."

"You — If anyone should have been making allowances, it was me," Cecil says. "I didn't even realize you were gearing up to fight _here_ on Valentine's Day!"

"You … didn't?" Carlos asks. Cecil can see him going through the same calculations Dr. Renegade did. It's reassuring to see he hadn't been hiding that on purpose. "But you got back while I was still gearing up — oh. Oh, you didn't find out I was leaving later from someone else, you thought I was leaving _right then_. No wonder you got upset —"

"Can we just agree to split the blame?" Cecil asks, because he doesn't want to argue about that, of all things.

Carlos almost looks like he's still ready to argue about it, but then he lets it go. "That's fair," he says.

Cecil is unsettled by the capitulation. "Do you really think that? Or are you just agreeing because I asked?"

Carlos squeezes his hand. "I really think that. It's a reasonable compromise. I wasn't ever actually taking orders from you, you know, but that whole … spell … thing … is gone now."

Cecil searches his eyes, trying to determine how he can be sure.

Carlos smiles a little. "Would it help if I pointed out Jerry's Tacos should be brought up on charges for daring to call what they sell _food_?"

"Yes," Cecil admits, and Carlos's smile grows. "So you're back? You're really back?"

"I've been here the whole time," Carlos says. "Just … confused. But yes. I'm _entirely_ here now."

Cecil launches himself at Carlos. To his surprise, Carlos dodges just slightly, redirecting him from a fervent kiss to a solid hug.

"Sorry, but I _really_ need to brush my teeth first," Carlos says. "And possibly exorcise the sink after."

"Oh. Of course." And he probably needs a few minutes alone anyway. Cecil really doesn't want to be smothering. He gives Carlos one last squeeze before letting him go. Carlos thoughtfully deposits the neutralized but befouled handkerchief in their Mr. Incinerator on his way.

While Carlos is occupied, Cecil sets up more candles to make the apartment a little easier to navigate, and he hangs the lab coat up by the door. Carlos's phone seems to have settled down, so Cecil borrows it once more, sending _Cecil again - Carlos is restored! :) :) :)_ to both Shakeena and Dr. Renegade, because they deserve to know.

Carlos takes long enough that it's clear he really did need to collect himself privately. When he emerges, his face is freshly washed and he looks a lot steadier. Any misgivings he might have about what he's been through for these past few days have been either resolved or ruthlessly suppressed, and he moves with renewed confidence as he comes over to Cecil and kisses him _very_ thoroughly indeed. "That's better," he says, a little breathlessly, after. "Tell me —"

His cell phone proclaims, very loudly, that _we are the champions, my friend_.

"Oh, not again —" Carlos starts to say, but as the clip continues, they both realize it's a call rather than a notification. He checks the screen and rolls his eyes. "Just give me a minute to talk to her so we can concentrate without distractions," he tells Cecil. He accepts the call. "Hi, Julie," he says as he flops down on the couch.

She asks or demands something, and he answers, "There _is_ no 'standard post-incident protocol'." Cecil awards himself full points for figuring that out first. "Unless you invented it in the past few days. And if you did, I'm sure it's something like 'step one, get a full record of everything that happens; step two, try not to be dead; step two-sub-a, if anyone from administration asks, pretend step two is actually step one and that this step doesn't exist; step three, try to keep other people from being dead; and step four, get a paper out of it'."

Cecil is impressed. That's a very practical protocol.

"But you can skip the challenge questions," Carlos continues. "I really am all here now."

Then he pulls the phone sharply away from his ear as she shouts "—WHAMMIED YOURSELF?!"

"Yes," Carlos says, not bothering to move the phone back to his ear. "Yes I did."

" _YOU ARE A DISASTER OF GAUSSIAN PROPORTIONS!_ "

"Yup. Someone's got to give you a challenge. Hey, can you send over some dry ice? We just bought all this food, I don't want to throw it away." Then he hangs up, even though she's still shouting something, and reaches up to catch Cecil's hand and draw him in.

After several seconds of desperate kissing, Carlos pants, "Is this okay now? I mean, if you don't want to go any further, that's fine, of course, but … if you were trying to be careful for my sake or something, you _really_ didn't have to."

"It didn't feel right without you here," Cecil says.

"But I was — oh."

There's something soft in the way Carlos is regarding him. It's familiar, especially after these past few days, but it has _context_ now, and the combination fills Cecil with adoration and desire.

"Oh, look, here you are," Cecil says unsteadily. "This is okay now. It's very, very okay —" and then his mouth is too busy for words.

Unfortunately, after only another minute or two, Carlos pulls back — not to lead Cecil to a more comfortable location, sadly, but to press the heels of his hands against his eyes. "Sorry."

"What is it?" Cecil asks nervously. "Are you still being affected? Is it coming back?"

"I'm fine," Carlos says, because _of course he does_. But he looks surprised by Cecil's growl and quickly adds, "No, I just mean, it's not that. It's — I have a headache."

Cecil blinks at him. Carlos was in favor of this plan just a few moments ago, and he regifted the "Passive-Aggressive Relationship Euphemism of the Day" calendar that came in the city's official relationship starter kit —

"Not like that," Carlos says hastily, realizing Cecil's confusion. "Throwing off a psychic influence leaves a pretty nasty migraine, it turns out. Endorphins help," he says, with a crooked grin, "but apparently not enough."

Cecil sighs, because there's always something getting in their way lately. "And on top of an alarming amount of psychic bruising, too," he says disapprovingly, guiding Carlos to lie down with his head in Cecil's lap. He runs his fingers through Carlos's hair in ways he knows help with headaches.

Carlos relaxes into the gesture, some of the tension already leaving his expression. "The Valentine's Day _thing_ has been getting stronger," he says after a minute or two. "It's a problem. Getting devious, too, as if it wasn't bad enough already. And our mental defense training is still completely inadequate. If I can't take it down without taking _myself_ out with the backlash …."

"Well, you have most of a year to work on it," Cecil offers, because Carlos doesn't need the stress of worrying about his frustrations with work right now.

"Yeah. Maybe I can build on what Flynn did with those glasses," Carlos says, completely missing the part where Cecil is trying to get him to relax. "She did a really good job on those. Maybe I can work out a way to build on that — if it's the innermost layer, I could still project a shield …."

He keeps mumbling theories and speculations to himself, and Cecil doesn't have the heart to interrupt, because he's so happy to see Carlos willingly acknowledging his own magic again.

"… And you don't need to hear about this stuff," Carlos realizes a little while later. "Sorry." He sighs. "Really sorry, because I need to report in."

"I know." He reaches across to take Carlos's phone from the coffee table and hand it to him. "I don't think you're in any condition to go anywhere, but you don't usually agree with me about that."

Carlos accepts the phone but doesn't use it yet. "I really am sorry," he says quietly.

"Carlos," Cecil starts, more than a little exasperated, because he seriously doesn't want to have to argue about this. He makes himself take a deep breath and try again. "I've had you here for several days more than I expected. Well, most of you. More than half. Even prorated, I come out ahead of recent projections. You need to go be a wizard now. It's fine."

Carlos catches hold of Cecil's hand and kisses it briefly before making his call.

Which doesn't last long, because the person he asks for isn't there. "She's not dead, is she?" he asks warily. The answer he gets seems to reassure him, so he agrees to leave a message. The message he chooses to leave is that he's finished his assignment and is now awaiting orders, and while Cecil doesn't entirely approve, he can agree it sounds reasonable under the circumstances.

Carlos sets his phone back on the coffee table when he's done, rather than holding on to it.

"It's just as well," he says. "I need to figure out a better way to report what I've been up to than just saying I accidentally compelled myself into forgetting I'm a wizard. If I have to argue technicalities of the Fourth Law, I'm already in trouble, and I'm not the only one." He sighs. "I should get a stamp card, at this rate. One stamp for each law I manage to break when I'm supposed to be enforcing them. Maybe if I fill it before they get around to cutting my head off, someone will send me a toaster or something."

"I would think small kitchen appliances would be more appropriate for successful evasions," Cecil says. "A full stamp card really ought to give you some kind of immunity."

"As long as it's not immunity from continuing to exist," Carlos says.

"But this wouldn't count," Cecil says. "You didn't really enthrall anyone, even yourself. You were being influenced. Even if the spirits of the monkey's paw made you turn your own power against yourself, that's not the same thing at all."

"We'll see." Carlos doesn't sound especially confident, but he isn't feeling well anyway, so that's probably affecting his outlook. He's good at paperwork. He'll find a way to work it out.

They sit quietly for a few more minutes, but Cecil eventually has to ask, "You don't _really_ think I 'deserve' a non-wizard boyfriend, do you?"

"What?" Carlos frowns up at him. "No. Don't — I can't really explain everything, because it's not like I sat down and planned all that. Mostly I just kept thinking _be perfect for Cecil_ all the time."

"Objectively perfect for my sake, or perfectly suited to me? Because I knew you were perfectly _im_ perfect years ago." More than one year, and in this happy case, more than two. "I thought I made it clear I loved that about you. And I already thought you were perfectly suited to me."

"I don't … I don't think I thought there was a difference," Carlos admits.

"Why would being a wizard be a problem either way, though?"

Carlos closes his eyes. "I don't know. It's been so hard for us lately, and sometimes it seems like things were easier back when I was first starting to get things right with you, you know? Back when you thought I was just a scientist and you could safely hate wizards."

Cecil makes a face, because he wants to protest, but some of the harsh things Carlos said about wizards were uncomfortably familiar. He may not remember specifics, because he has abjured his former convictions and chooses to deny them utterly, but he suspects Carlos does.

Unseeing, and so unbiased by Cecil's expression, Carlos makes a face of his own. "It wasn't easier, for the record. I know that. It just feels that way sometimes." His voice turns distant. "And then, just after you took being surprised with the truth of who I really was so badly, that condo showed me that the most perfect thing I could imagine was to really be the scientist you still thought I was at that point. So I guess there's precedent." He twists his mouth as he adds, "Oh, and let's not forget how I got an entire _year_ of practice as a wannabe scientist with memory impairment and no magic to speak of. It's almost like the universe is trying to send me a message."

Cecil considers that possibility. He hasn't _heard_ of a new message system of that type, but then, there was no press release for the launch of the feelings delivery service … or a formal launch date, for that matter ….

As he's pondering, Carlos continues, "And … I know you've been trying with your show, but this city still _really_ doesn't like wizards."

"I didn't know it was that bad," Cecil admits. "Or that decapitation was that unpopular! I mean, I don't think it even made the top ten in the annual round-up of horrifying ways to die last year, and that was just a couple of months ago." He clears his throat. "A hot new opinion trend like that could be quite the scoop."

Carlos just makes a noncommittal sound, either missing the subtle hint or catching it but choosing to protect his sources. After a few more seconds he sighs. "And when you're standing there, facing something several times bigger than you physically and about ten times that psychically, and you're soaking wet but you're still sticky with cherry liqueur, and you're half-paralyzed from psionic screams, and you're just trying to finish the job in a hurry so you can go _back_ to the same betrayals and defeats you've been dealing with for so long …."

He sighs again.

"Maybe some cowardly little corner you didn't know you had grabs the chance to _not_ do all that for a while," he finishes, dispirited.

"Carlos, you have one of the lowest cowardice scores I've ever seen," Cecil says, properly exasperated now. "I know it's rude to comment on these things, and I would never want to change you, but a score that low is rarely _healthy_."

A cowardice deficiency as strong as Carlos's tends to cause some really alarming, even life-threatening, symptoms. Like going out and fighting Valentine's Day. Cecil makes a mental note to find out if anyone ever did develop those supplements that were supposed to be coming out, because Carlos is clearly resistant to the standard terror therapy. Carlos will probably decline, but he deserves the option.

"And you're allowed to need a break sometimes, even if that happens to be just when you've run afoul of a literarily notorious magical influence. Besides, if all that had been from cowardice, you wouldn't have left yourself stubborn enough to just break through it a few days later."

Carlos seems to consider that. "I _am_ pretty stubborn," he says finally, with a touch of pride.

"You're pretty ridiculous," Cecil says, and Carlos grins. "But if the universe really is trying to tell you something, maybe it's trying to tell you that you need to negotiate better time-off benefits."

"Yes, I'm _so sure_ that's it," Carlos says, his tone conveying the opposite.

Carlos hasn't had as long to think about this as Cecil has, so he might easily miss the one benefit of his little misadventure. "You went into that condo right after the rooftop picnic, didn't you? Which means you were in terrible condition. I know that when you got locked out of Night Vale, you were fighting that Smiling God even without most of your magic, and that wasn't very long after all your wormholes. You really weren't in very good shape then, either." How much of the year afterwards was related to that and how much was Carlos giving up — on coming back, on them, just in general — is a question Cecil really doesn't want to touch right now. Or ever. "And honestly, if you had remembered you're a wizard when you woke up in the science bunker a few days ago, what would you have done?"

"Finished cleanup, tried to get at least an hour or two with you, and then gone back to my mission," Carlos says automatically. "… Oh."

"Yes! Even though you couldn't _walk outside_ without a shield Shakeena made for you. Maybe the message the universe has for you is that it would like you not to get yourself even more hurt. Or killed. I know you try to be responsible, but you are surprisingly terrible at recognizing when sheer willpower really isn't enough to keep you going."

Or shouldn't be, at least. Carlos somehow forces it to be anyway, and that can't be good for him in the long term.

"I don't really think _the universe_ is going to go to any great lengths to remind me to take five every now and then," Carlos says. "If for some reason it cared about that, it could just try _not_ having everything be on fire all the time. Metaphorically. Mostly metaphorically. But … I can try to be a little more careful about my reserve levels, I guess."

"The universe and I would thank you," Cecil says. Carlos looks amused.

Cecil wonders if the universe — or any other vast and unknowable power or entity — might be trying to send _him_ a message as well. He was getting upset about Carlos's string of absences and starting to feel as ignored and abandoned as he had when Carlos kept _not_ looking for doors. That was never a fair comparison, though; he just never had the chance to pause and really think about it while they were in the middle of everything.

Carlos has been away a lot lately, but honestly, that's not so unusual. He has a lot of responsibility and being a wizard keeps him busy; that's always been true, and they've found ways to deal with it. The past several weeks have been worse than usual, yes, but Cecil would normally have had faith things would eventually get better.

The problem was the Christmas trip. It's easy to forget, but Carlos was — _is_ — an outsider. The Christmas trip was pleasant, for the most part, and Carlos's family was absolutely lovely, but Cecil was forcibly reminded that Carlos knows the outside world the way Cecil knows Night Vale. He _fits_ there, the way Cecil fits in Night Vale. He's always alert and vigilant, but he was actually ever so slightly _less_ on edge the entire time they were outside Night Vale's borders.

He was so confident out there, so at ease … just the way he was when he showed Cecil around the city he and his masked-army friends were building in the desert otherworld. And every time Carlos promised but, more often than not, failed to get back to Night Vale this past several weeks, Cecil couldn't help being reminded of Carlos's persistent failure to even _look_ for a way back from his exile back then.

Now that he consciously recognizes the association, he can banish it. This isn't the same situation and they are no longer the same people. If Carlos decides to leave Night Vale, Cecil can join him. And here, now, Carlos _does_ try to get back to him, and he _does_ come back when he can, and his failures frustrate him at least as much as they do Cecil. He may be very busy and distracted as a wizard, but Cecil doesn't just want the parts of Carlos that fit nicely in Night Vale; he wants _all_ of Carlos, including the inconvenient and ill-fitting parts.

Cecil is rusty at the protocols for Vague and Unattributable Gratitude towards Parties Unknown. He adds looking those up to his running list of mental notes. It's dangerous and probably futile to attribute meaning to a cold and meaningless universe … but really, what is life _but_ attributing meaning to a cold and meaningless universe?

Their conversation comfortably ended, they sit together quietly, Cecil continuing to do what he can to ease Carlos's headache. A few minutes later, though, Carlos frowns and sits up just before someone knocks.

"I can get it," Cecil tells him.

"No, it's probably Julie with dry ice," Carlos says. "I don't want you to get hit if she decides to throw something."

He goes over to open the door, parting the wards at the same time, but then he's slamming the door closed again before the person on the other side gets out more than "Hi, Car—!"

"What's wrong?" Cecil asks, alarmed. The voice was wrong for it, but — "Is Dr. Renegade lying in wait with a new death ray?"

"No, don't worry," Carlos says, squeezing his eyes shut for a few seconds. "It's just Kate out there." He digs the glasses out of the pocket of the lab coat and shoves them on, looking irritated about it. Then he opens the door and the wards again. "Sorry. Hi. Come in."

"Okay. I brought the dry ice," Dr. Rochelle says, waving a cooler as she steps inside. "Did you know this entire section of the grid is out of power?"

"I'm starting to remember why Night Vale isn't too thrilled about wizards," Carlos mutters.

"Don't be silly," Cecil tells him. "Power outages aren't nearly as frequent as they used to be. People need to be reminded so they don't get complacent."

"The rest of the team is out there helping set up some generators," Dr. Rochelle says. "And Dr. Kwan thinks she knows where the weak points probably are, as long as nothing is actively interfering." She looks at Carlos sidelong.

"I'm calm," Carlos says. "I'm downright chill. Speaking of, thanks for the ice."

The problem is that the fridge and freezer are both pretty full, leaving little room for the dry ice. They have to make some hard decisions, and they have to make them fast, so Dr. Rochelle leaves with a cooler full of frozen yogurt to share with the rest of the team of scientists.

Once they're done in the kitchen, Carlos actually goes so far as to form a magical circle around the couch and coffee table before he sits down and takes off the glasses. He tosses them on the coffee table, next to his phone. "If I have to wear those on my next mission, there will be questions," he says.

"Just tell the truth," Cecil suggests. It's a radical idea, but just this once, it might work. "They're an experiment in improved mental shielding. And you look great in them."

"It's true, I do," Carlos says, with a grin so cocky Cecil just has to kiss him.

Once that has been accomplished, Cecil takes Carlos's face in his hands. "Are you really okay?"

"I am. I promise. Except the slight migraine. Other than that, I'm totally fine. But are you? Be honest, please. I know this has been hard on you."

"It has," Cecil agrees. "But I've got you back now — all of you. I get to spend time with you until whenever you get called in. You'll deal with your mission and you'll be back when you can. Tomorrow, I'll go back to the joys and frustrations and casual terrors of my job. And I'm going bowling next week. So I'm okay. And even though various forces will always conspire to drive us apart, I think _we'll_ be okay, as long as we can remember to have faith in each other, no matter what our training or masters might tell us."

Carlos's answering smile is complex — it's mostly satisfaction and agreement, as well as fondness, but there's also a faint amusement. "As you wish."

* * *

**Epilogue**

Carlos's phone goes back to its usual eclectic mix of ringtones, signifying only the callers, to Cecil's relief. He doesn't want a spectator for their relationship, much less a running commentator. Mutual ignoring is entirely fine with him.

His own phone soon recovers as well, going back to its usual well-behaved self for the most part. And if for some reason its ringtone for Carlos gets stuck on an upbeat tune telling Cecil he only means everything, going on to promise spider-riddled suites and poisonous fruits if he lets it ring too long, well, he can forgive that. It's sweet, as a metaphor for Cecil being _home_ to Carlos no matter where Carlos has to go or what he has to do, and it's helpfully ominous, as a warning reminder of what could go wrong if either of them takes the idea too literally.

Besides, the ringtone keeps reverting whenever Cecil tries to fix it. He can take a hint.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, so sorry this took so very long. I apologize for any remaining roughness as well; I had to call time on the editing process because having this story hanging incomplete for so long was bad for my head.
> 
> I can state with confidence that this is not the story shadydave would have written, but it is nonetheless immeasurably better than my first draft thanks to shadydave's contributions, from improved characterization and clarified plotting to any number of contributed or polished moments of humor. All my gratitude is insufficient, but I offer it to shadydave regardless: for allowing me to play with this world; for being so enthusiastic about even my first draft; for making so many improvements to this story; for putting up with endless rounds of my failure to understand points (until, suddenly and frustratingly, I did); for making time despite numerous other commitments; and for putting up with me in general, through social anxiety meltdowns, work fires, family crises, and eerily timed touring-live-show reflections of family crises.
> 
> I am also grateful for the feedback I've gotten through this process, despite the delayed conclusion. It not only encouraged me to fight through to the end but also helped me through some very difficult times. Thank you, so much.


End file.
